


Nescit Cedere (Ne Desistas)

by vienn_peridot



Series: Orders Up [7]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attraction, Canon-Typical Violence, Commissioned Work, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Don't Like Don't Read, Flashbacks, Fluff, Greatsword Ex Machina, Greatswords, Hurt/Comfort, Jazz is a Shit, Lancet meddles like nobodys business, Meddling, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Ratchet is Captain Oblivious, Romance, Unredeemed!Deadlock, Vomiting, Wing is a sneaky and disobedient patient, Wing lives, also Greatsword Feels, the first quarter of the fic is horrible, the rest is fluff and slow burn and developing relationship and HC and romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-02-05 07:32:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 37,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: Wing survived.So did Deadlock.Ratchet and the Autobots must deal with the consequences.(Please read initial A/N before continuing on to the rest of the fic)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Commissioned by Anonymous.  
> This was an extremely challenging and rewarding project. Thank you so much for being so patient when this fought me or life got in the way of writing. You're amazing ^.^
> 
>  
> 
> ~We are dealing with an unrepentant, 100% Decepticon Deadlock.  
> ~The commissioner asked me not to go into graphic detail of the torture and abuse. Please be aware that it is still disturbing. As always I will let you know which chapters have the nasty in them so you can choose to read or not at your own discretion.  
> ~For this commission I was specifically tasked to write something thematically similar to my works ‘[Broken](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6032860/chapters/13833934)’ and ‘[Bet My Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6330703/chapters/14505091)’. I have tried my best to do this in a way that handles the subject matter with the gravity it deserves while at the same time not writing the exact same story for a third time. Because of this I have shifted a lot of Wing’s therapy and recovery to the background and allowed other plotlines to dominate the second half of this story. (And to be completely honest I don’t think I have it in me to go through those emotions again at this point)  
> ~My headcanons for the Circle of Light and their Greatswords draw heavily on those laid out by Gatekat, Verilidaine and Starrise/Starshield in their AUs, heavily mixed with some of my own ideas. I named Wing’s Greatsword long before finding out that the name had already been used in IDW canon.  
> ~Like the Combicons in my fic ‘[Origins: Ambulon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9846110/chapters/22097186)’ Lancet as he appears here is a creature entirely of my own imagination. Whatever happens to develop him in canon, I will treasure this version of my irreverent, gossipy helicopter child forever TuT  
> ::commspeak looks like this::

Wing found Drift on the edge of the city.

There was a small smile on the speedster’s face, as if he had a special secret Wing knew nothing about.

_ At least he didn’t make it outside. _

As usual, Wing didn’t pry. He tried to give Drift as much privacy as he could while still obeying Dai Atlas’ command to stay with the outsider at all times.

Drift fell obediently into step beside Wing as he led the groundframe back towards the main city cavern. There was something new in Drift’s movements, a sort of predatory swagger that made civilians move out of his way despite the fact that he was accompanied by a Knight of Light. Out of the corner of his optic, Wing watched Drift’s smile morph into a subtle smirk when he saw the reactions, blue optics glittering dangerously.

At times like this Wing despaired of getting through to Drift. Sometimes it seemed as if the light Wing had seen in him when they first met was flickering and fading out.

If it hadn’t died already.

It was becoming hard to tell.

Today, at least, Drift seemed to be willing to behave. So Wing cycled his vents and kept silent, hoping that this change in Drift’s behaviour marked a turn for the good.

_ Please, Primus. Let it be so… _


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm hits and tears Wing's world apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major battle scene and minor character fridging.
> 
> I started naming Greatswords after Greek and Roman deities before I read into IDW cannon and found out they'd already used 'Aequitas' in another context. Meh, this is fanfic and I'm having fun with my headcanons so, yeah.

A call to arms shattered the peaceful night cycle.

Thunderous alarms ripped Wing out of recharge and sent him into battle mode before he was fully awake, optics scanning the room for danger. Drift’s two-toned form wasn’t in the spare berth, but apart from that everything seemed fine.

The danger was elsewhere; outside the hidden city.

Snatching up Aequitas and his short blades, Wing charged into the main room, shouting for Drift. It wasn’t uncommon for the speedster to spend most of the night cycle brooding on the balcony or glaring at the locked door of Wing’s apartment.

Silence greeted the Knight as he finished clipping his weapons into place. Anxious to be leaving, Wing forced himself to stillness and listened. When his audials picked up nothing he gritted his denta and wasted precious seconds checking every nook and cranny in his small apartment.

It was empty. Not a trace of the groundframe to be seen.

There was no more time to look; he’d wasted too much already. Swearing quietly and viciously Wing ran for the balcony and dove over the edge, transforming midair, firing his afterburners and screaming through the air towards the Citadel Plaza.

First he’d defend his home; _then_ he’d worry about finding Drift.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Under Axe’s competent leadership Wing and a small contingent of Knights held the attackers at bay, buying Dai Atlas time to evaluate the forces arrayed against them and formulate a plan. Clearing the tunnels and forcing the invaders back to the surface was their first priority, one Wing threw himself into with bared blades in his hands and cold determination in his spark.

The very fact that the invaders had known _how_ to get in made him deeply uneasy. Yellow blood and glowing energon sprayed from his foes, soaked his blades as Wing forced himself to concentrate on the situation at hand.

The first sight of a familiar purple brand almost broke his flow, movements jolting as his optics flicked _up_ from his target –narrow gap exposing vital cables beside a thick chestplate- to see an unfamiliar rounded helm fronted by a broad glowing swathe of visor.

That hesitation cost him the easy opening as thick arms came in, reaching for him. Wing spun inside his target’s reach, slashed up with both blades to score the tips across heavy neck cabling and used the momentum to bring the hilt of one blade down on the inside of an elbow, crumpling the joint and driving his enemy’s arm down even as he kept the other blade up on guard and lashed out with a pede to send the mech staggering away.

Wing came up with his blades before him, optics on his next target and peripherals scanning for the one to come after it.

And the one after that.

And the one after _that_.

Slowly, inch by inch the Knights reclaimed the tunnels, exploiting their knowledge of the terrain to push the slavers and their Decepticon allies back up to the surface with minimal casualties of their own.

That changed as soon as they were out on open ground, with room to move and clear lines of sight.

Axe’s voice crackled out over comms, ordering the defenders to take up positions around the tunnel entrances. The ground rumbled beneath Wing’s pedes in round after round of tremors, almost startling him into the air. Then he recognised the source as explosives charges being detonated somewhere deep belowground.

_Sweet Primus, they’re blowing the tunnels!_

The vibrations shocked Wing, broke his rhythm, dropped him from the trancelike mind-state of battle.

He hadn’t realised just how badly the fight was going for them.

Another underground blast sent tremors through solid rock and fresh determination pouring into the jet. Wing redoubled his efforts, cutting a path of destruction through the forces massed against New Crystal City.

Laserfire scorched his armour, lightweight projectiles bounced off him while heavier ones drove into his living metal. He pushed the pain aside and fought on, sacrificing the stabilising fin on his left arm created an opening that allowed him to decapitate a slaver getting too close for comfort. Battle protocols suppressed damage warnings, but updated functionality readouts painted a grim picture of how long he could continue fighting like this at his current fuel level.

_One major bleed or even a couple of minor ones together and I’m slagged._

Slowly Wing fought his way over to where Axe and a handful of Knights were holding a defensive line in front of what had to be the last open tunnel to the city. Behind their blades a steady trail of wounded dragged themselves back underground –or were carried below by medics old enough to have seen battlefields before they fled Cybertron.

_We’re… we’re losing._ Badly _._

He risked taking his optics off the shapes of enemy bodies in front of him just for a moment to scan the wider battlefield and felt his spark shrink.

_It’s the distance weapons; we’re not used to facing ranged projectiles anymore._

::Dai has a plan but he needs time.:: Axe’s voice cut through the airwaves, riding the Knights’ special frequency. ::I need volunteers to stay with me and buy him that time.::

With the odds against them it was as good as a suicide mission.

Anyone who stayed with Axe _had_ to be willing to die.

Having seen the way his fellow Knights were falling to well-aimed shots from Decepticon rifles Wing knew he had only one choice.

::Staying.:: He replied, the first of several to respond.

Not many, but a few. Hopefully enough to make a difference.

It was brutal and bloody, Wing somehow escaping the worst of the projectiles only to come under concentrated attack by mechs who seemed intent on cutting him off, isolating him from the other Knights instead of killing him outright. He took lethal advantage of this, building a wall of corpses around himself as spilled energon turned the sand beneath his pedes to a treacherous sucking quagmire. Low fuel warnings flared on his HUD to be dismissed with a growl of defiance.

One by one his fellow Knights were cut down as Wing struggled to fight his way to solid footing, forced to retreat behind his barricade of purple-branded corpses by a concentrated barrage of laserfire every time he tried to leave it’s shelter. He was fighting on fumes now, exhaustion making it ever harder to keep his footing in the sticky muck that pulled at his pedes. He was slowing, making mistakes and leaving openings that even a rookie would have been ashamed of.

_Where is Dai? How much longer does he need?_

Slashing left and right, Wing overbalanced and failed to correct in time. He stumbled and went down in the mud, feeling the disgusting mixture of gritty sand and Cybertronian gore ooze into his vents before they sealed. His arms wouldn’t respond to movement commands; he didn’t have enough energy left to power them.

_Must get up… have to fight!_

Someone grabbed him, hauled him up and slapped hobbles on his thrusters while he gasped and coughed the muck from his vents. Underpowered optics glitched, the world flickering in and out as he tried to pull away from battle-roughened hands that cuffed his hands behind him before he could reach for the Greatsword at his back. Someone snapped a collar around his neck and then Wing was picked up and hauled across the desert by some massive warframe.

Gloating voices filled his audials with meaningless noise as he searched for an escape.

Eventually the mech carrying Wing stopped and tossed him carelessly to the ground. He hit hard, landing on his belly, biting his glossa as the impact knocked the air from his frame and jarred every strut in his body. Processed energon filled his mouth from his bitten glossa and he tried to spit it out despite the pain from a fractured jaw. Every wound he had sustained during the battle ached and burned.

A crash from beside him had him turning his head, cycling his optics desperately to clear them. When they finally focused he saw a familiar red-and-white form with shattered wings and an ugly stasis collar locked around his throat lying next to Wing on the desert sand.

_…Redline?_

“So? Did we get the right one?”

Wing’s captors were addressing someone who approached with a familiar, predatory tread that his sluggish processors struggled to identify. His tanks churned, threatening to purge.

Redline looked up, his single working optic focused on the approaching figure who stopped, their shadow lying dark and cold over Wing’s armour. Redline frowned at the newcomer, opening his mouth to speak.

Then his head exploded.

Hot energon and shrapnel sprayed Wing as Redline’s frame convulsed and then collapsed to the sand. Too stunned to react, unable to accept the reality of the callous execution Wing turned almost mechanically to look up at the blazingly backlit figure towering between him and the sun.

Red optics smirked down at him, a glowing blaster muzzle tapping casually against a familiar grey thigh.

“Yes, you did.” Deadlock said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the dark half of the fic begins...


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Crystal City continues while Wing is forced to watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Battle, slaughter, helplessness, gore, more minor character deaths, last stand.
> 
> This is... ow.

A strong feeling of unreality crept over Wing as shock set in.

Despite _knowing_ that he was awake he felt numb and detached, hoping against hope that _somehow_ this was a horrible dream and he would wake up from it. He lay on the ground at Drift’s pedes, forced to watch the brutal end of Axe and the rest of the Knights as Decepticon forces rooted them out or simply overwhelmed them with superior firepower and fresher soldiers.

Redline’s energon dried sticky on his faceplates, everywhere except for wet trails down his cheeks where steady streams of helpless tears washed it away.

Determined to deny Drift as much as he could, Wing forced down the sounds that threatened to burst from him.

Every time he shuttered his optics one of Drift’s pedes would deliver a rough thump to his crooked, singed flightpanels. The prodding would continue until Wing brought his optics online again, Drift forcing him to bear witness to the slaughter of his friends and comrades.

Axe went down fighting, taken out by a long-range mortar with a lethal blast radius so large not even the deadly Knight’s speed could save him from. Seeing Axe’s frame torn and fragmented, a life suddenly transformed into a bright spray of armour, shrapnel and internal fluids mixed with a cloud of vaporised rock annihilated Wing’s control over his vocaliser.

He screamed once. Axe’s name.

As he screamed he felt Drift’s gloating EMF roll over him in a thick wave. Sickened, Wing locked his vocaliser down but he couldn’t stifle his whining engine or wheezing vents as his spark seemed to shrivel in his chest.

All he could do was watch, lying injured and helpless at Deadlock’s pedes, energon flowing sluggishly from his wounds as the battle continued. The crater that marked where Axe had fallen became just another battlefield obstacle, one to be avoided or exploited as needed.

By the time Dai Atlas’ counterattack drove back the Decepticons and their techno-organic allies Wing was hovering on the verge of stasis lock. Low fuel and fluid pressure warnings crowded his HUD, pale desert sands swaying behind the glowing numbers as someone picked him up. His last sight of home was covered by a glaring neon shutdown timer, ticking down the seconds of consciousness that remained to him.

_Aequitas… the Sword…_

Painfully aware of the need to keep the Greatsword out of enemy hands Wing funnelled everything he had left into releasing the clamps holding the blade to his back. Consciousness flickered and started to fade, everything focused on forcing reluctant parts to move as his battered frame resisted his efforts.

**_No…_ **

Wing’s pained whimper of denial never left his vocaliser as Aequitas’ hilt caught in his armour, the Greatsword refusing to fall.

Light and dark bled into each other as the timer hit zero and awareness fled.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Wing woke when his frame hit a hard metal floor.

Either the shutdown of his battle protocols and a brief period of recharge had restored him a little, or else someone had shot energon into his lines. He wasn’t sure, but he thought his fuel readouts were slightly higher than they should have been. Thankfully there wasn’t enough energy available for his vocaliser to boot automatically so he was spared the shame of whimpering like an injured mechanimal in front of his captors.

“Get that sword off him.” Drift’s familiar voice ordered.

The foreign growling undertones combined with the authority of command in his tone chilled Wing to the core. Faint shuffling and vibrations through the deck beneath his cheek told of multiple mechs in the room, although none moved to approach him.

“Cowards. Afraid of stories made to scare newsparked cannon fodder.” Drift sneered, heavy pedesteps approaching Wing where he lay on the deck. “Do you check under your berths for Sparkeaters before you recharge, too?”

Nobody answered but Wing could _feel_ the reactions to Drift’s taunting. It didn’t boe well for his ability to maintain command in the long run.

 _I_ might _have a chance to get out of here…_

Then a hauntingly familiar Field buzzed against his, harsh and dissonant.

Drift’s vents gusted warm air across scorched and abraded plating while clawed fingers scraped cruelly against Wing’s backplates. Roughly he pried jammed plating apart to get at the hilt of the Sword where it was stuck fast, somewhere down near Wing’s lower spinal struts. That familiar Field pulsed with victory as Drift’s hand closed around Aequitas’ hilt as he pulled the great blade free, lifting it up and away from Wing’s frame.

Sudden, white-hot _rage_ from Aequitas overwhelmed Wing. The emotion surged through the bond, into his spark, consuming his entire awareness. A beautiful high note filled his mind, a pure sound that faded slowly, blurring into the sound of Drift’s agonised screams.

Pulling strength from somewhere, Wing reset his optics. Bringing them online the got a grainy, greyscale view of Drift cradling the melted remains of one hand to his chestplates. Aequitas lay on the floor at his pedes. The gem in the sword’s hilt blazed so brightly it left afterimages in Wing’s visual feeds, burning out filaments before his processor could compensate for it.

Drift was shouting, the words glitching into garbled nonsense in Wing’s drained processor. Movement inhis periphery was ignored, Wing simply refused to take his optics off Aequitas.

A blowtorch entered his narrowing field of vision and Wing found the energy to scream.

He screamed as the flame approached Aequitas, absolutely certain he was about to have the Sword’s destruction on his conscience. He _keened_ as the flame flared brighter, striking familiar metal. It moved along the hilt, spitting sparks as it buned off the residue of centuries of reverent care before travelling slowly down to begin on the blade.

Wherever the flame went the Greatsword glowed; heating under the assault but stubbornly it refused to melt.

Eventually the blowtorch ran out of fuel and Drift barked more orders, still cradling his ruined hand to his chestplates and refusing all offers of medical treatment.

Wing watched groggily as a nameless Decepticon picked the superheated Greatsword up with long-handled tongs, holding it against the wall while someone else approached with a rivet gun.

Physically numb now and oblivious to his frame, Wing continued to keen brokenly his enemies used rivets and strips of scrap metal to nail Aequitas to the wall of his cell.

Scrap metal that looked disturbingly like slagged pieces of white and red armour.

Then Wing’s vocaliser blew and he passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geeze THANKS Aequitas, ruin Wing's efforts to keep you 'safe' :rolls eyes: Still I really, really enjoyed writing it's small revenge on Deadlock there.  
> Yeah, those were bits of Knight armour they used to stick the sword there. Wing and others.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captured and tormented, Wing begins to understand that some actions aren't meant to be kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: [Light of the Seven -Ramin Djawadi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9PXLTLuuSE).
> 
> Brace yourself for pain.  
> Torture, rape, manipulation.
> 
> Cue up some hardcore fluff and hurt/comfort to read after this.

 

# CHAPTER 3

 

Weeks passed and Wing’s vocaliser didn’t recover.

It was completely ruined, half-slagged and useless.

His self-repair could only do so much for it without medical care.

By now the entire unit would need to be replaced; not that he had any hopes of anything like that happening at this point. So he was left with something hoarse and raspy crackled into silence if he tried to speak above a whisper. He was grateful for this, even though the Decepticons complained loudly and often about the lack of appropriate vocal response while they abused him.

Wing had expected a certain amount of creativity from Drift when it came to taking revenge on him, but so far it all seemed fairly simple; using access to Wing’s frame as a reward for the mechs under his command. Mechs were given slots of time alone with him, allowed to do whatever they liked so long as they didn’t injure him so badly that he would need more than basic repairs. On the whole they were fairly unimaginative, which seemed like a blessing at first.

The full stasis collar Wing remembered from the battle had been swapped for a variable one that could be adjusted as needed. Depending on the whims of his abusers Wing would be left limp and helpless or allowed to thrash weakly in response to the brutalities visited upon him. He preferred to have it fully engaged. Being unable to move made it easier to send his mind away, to reach those altered states Knights learned during training and in the penance room, made it easier for them to endure physical suffering.

Made it a little easier for Wing to endure his torment.

But only a little.

In that place Wing found himself calling on reserves of mental strength he hadn’t needed for centuries. Pain and degradation were constant companions, staying with him through long nights of silence and even longer days of beatings and rape.

After Wing’s first -and only- visit from a medic all of his repairs and all of his fuel came from Drift. Evenings quickly settled into a routine; Drift would patch the worst injuries and force Wing to take drink his ration while Drift held the cube.

Then the mind games began, Drift _finally_ showing something of his resourceful side.

After the hand-feeding Wing was offered painkillers –but only if he asked ‘nicely’.

He refused to beg.

Physical pain was no stranger to him.

Wing knew what it was like to hurt; all Knights did. He knew how to harness this so it didn’t overwhelm him and he knew how to endure.

So he did.

During the endless days he would lie still or kneel under the brutal thrusting of his abusers, silently recite the words of endless mantras in an attempt to take his mind off the sounds his captors made as they took him.

Some of the Decepticons actually seemed to be impressed by his stubborn resistance. Initially Wing had marked those mechs as being potential allies, but as time dragged on that hope soon faded.

Others make bets on when he would break and went out of their way to cause maximum pain with minimum damage. The only small blessing was that for most of the day he didn’t have enough energy for his EMF sensors to come online, sparing him the intimate knowledge of how his abusers _felt_ as they took him.

So far Drift was the only one whose touch didn’t bring pain, although it brought plenty of humiliation instead. Every night the speedster controlled the rate at which Wing could drink his daily ration and treated the Knight’s wounds with total indifference to the concepts of dignity and privacy.

_Especially_ when handling injuries to intimate parts of his frame.

Deep inside Wing hoped that Drift might relent if he saw him in pain, hoped that being forced to witness another being suffering like this might get through to him,might reawaken the compassion he’d seen in Drift that first night on the cliffs.

_I need a gun…_ two _guns._

But Drift didn’t give in.

Wing held out, held his glossa, tried to shore up his fading self-respect. His spark clung to Aequitas’ presence and he drew what comfort he could from his connection to the Greatsword.

It worked for a while. A week, at least. Possibly almost two.

Whenever he was left alone Wing would lie on the floor beneath Aequitas, his optics tracing the outline of the Greatsword beneath the bands of metal holding it to the wall. With his connection to the Sword as open as he could get he would lean on the artefact’s strength and try to force his frame to recover through sheer strength of will.

So far his rations were enough to keep his self-repair functioning properly. So his frame _was_ healing, even if his systems couldn’t quite keep up with sheer amount of minor injuries he received on a day-to-day basis. His self-repair naturally prioritised the worst injuries, those parts molested most often, leaving him aching and covered in partly-healed wounds that never seemed to fade.

Slowly, inevitably, Wing’s existence was consumed by pain.

One by one the mental tricks he relied upon to control pain inevitably stopped working, leaving him consumed by constant dull agony.

After three nights without recharge spent shivering in misery on the floor beneath the Greastsword, Wing finally gave in. He looked up, optics searching for _that spot_ , the one place where he could see through a gap between jagged metal strips and catch a glimpse of the focus-gem in Aequitas’ hilt.

_Please. I’m weak. I can’t do this any longer. Please… forgive me._

Tears filled his optics when he saw a faint glow kindle in the jewel in response to his thoughts. Aequitas’ presence in his spark strengthened, communicated something that was completely incomprehensible in his exhausted state.

That night, after taking his fuel from Drift’s hand, Wing took a deep in-vent and braced himself for what he was about to do.

A brief surge of stubborn pride rose within him and Wing almost changed his mind. Then something deep within his abdomen throbbed with a sharp, stabbing pain and pride vanished as if it had never been.

Hating himself for his weakness, Wing forced himself to kneel shakily at Drift’s pedes.

After sneaking a furtive glance up at the speedster’s amused expression Wing lowered his optics and pleaded for pain relief, abasing himself in a hoarse whisper until clawed hands closed around his helm, silencing him as they scraped against battered cheekpieces. Drift made him lean forward then, not satisfied until Wing’s cheek was resting against a heavily-armoured thigh. He could feel the distinctive buzz of arousal in Drift’s Field as those claws probed at the cables of his neck, found a fluid line and slipped a needle in.

After a few seconds anaesthetic numbness began to spread through Wing’s frame, slow fuzzy warmth creeping between him and the pain he had been living with for a small eternity.

It was purest bliss, a heaven he had forgotten existed.

As the pain faded Wing’s self-control went with it to leave him sobbing hysterically into the metal of Drift’s thigh. A battle-roughened hand came to rest on his helm, claws scraping gently at itchy spots he couldn’t reach, sloughing off thick scales of scar tissue and soothing the new metal underneath.

It was kindness, he thought, as the tears ran out and he stayed slumped against Drift’s leg. Letting his heavy helm resting on the grey thigh, Wing relaxed as the speedster silently groomed his helm.

Then Drift started to laugh softly.

Something about the sound sent a chill down Wing’s spinal struts. He tried to sit up but the speedster effortlessly held him in place, activating the collar to leave Wing him limp and helpless.

“ _Drift?_ ” His voice was a cracked and frightened whisper filled with confusion.

"Look at you.” Drift purred as his claws played around Wing’s helm. His touch was light, careful to bring no pain. “You know; if you’d listened to Dai Atlas this would _never_ have happened. He was right about me all along, Wing.”

Wordless, Wing shook his helm. Denying Drift’s words.

_No, there is still kindness in you. The war hasn’t killed it all. I_ know _it hasn’t._

Mocking laughter rang from the walls, too loud in the small space.

Wing flinched at the sound but those deadly claws continued to clear flakes of charred metal and dead nanites from the wide, delicate sweeps of sensor-laden metal flaring outwards from his helm. He was torn, frame craving the pleasurable touch while his spark cringed away. It didn’t matter what he did; Drift’s control over the collar denied him the ability to do anything.

“Oh _come on_ , Wing!” Drift’s voice was filled with genuine amusement and the closest thing to affection Wing had ever heard from him. “Did you think you would _change_ me? You have _no_ idea who I am, you and the rest of that city of cowards.” Thick contempt filled Drift’s Field and Wing silently urged his frame to divert energy away from his sensors and back to self-repair. “You abandoned us to starve in the gutters then treated us like garbage for doing what we needed to do to survive. None of you have _any_ idea what it was like for us.”

Unsure of where this was going Wing didn’t speak, waiting with his faceplates pressed to the warm metal of Drift’s thigh.

“But you’re _learning_ , aren’t you?” Drift leaned down to speak almost directly into Wing’s audial, low and intimate. “You’re learning just a little of what it was like to be treated the way we were. Can you even _imagine_ how it felt for me when you went and shoved my face in everything I never had? As if candy, a nice berth and fancy ‘bathing facilities’ could somehow make me forget who I _am_ and where I came from and all the mecha who have begged and starved, fought and _died_ beside me so that _nobody else_ would be forgotten and left to rust like we were?”

Words filled with anger and hate, poisonous words hissed into Wing’s audials that carved acid paths through his mind and burned deep into his Spark.

_It wasn’t like that. It_ wasn’t _…_

“You were _wrong_. You were _never_ going to change me, Wing.” Drift said the words slowly and clearly, with absolute conviction.

Wing shook his head, ruined vocaliser failing him.

_You’re_ wrong _. You can still change; can still choose good. I_ know _you can._

“What’s going to happen now is that _I’m_ going to change _you_. I’ve already started, see? It’s already working. Sooner or later you’ll join us, just how you wanted me to join your hypocritical goody-good brigade.” Drift’s low voice purring in his audial, hand a heavy weight on Wing’s shoulder turbine, claws scratching over a thick clot of dead nanites. “All you have to do is decide how much punishment you need to make up your mind.”

Drift paused for a moment, letting his words sink in before bending down, getting so close his lipplates brushed against Wing’s audial.

“I want you to know that whatever happens to you in here? It’s _your_ fault.” Drift murmured, soft and intense. “ _Your fault_ for not listening to Dai Atlas; your fault for not listening to _me_.”

Then Drift stood, removing the support that kept Wing sitting upright. He didn’t even look back as he left, closing the door and locking the jet in for the night.

When he left Wing was alone, with processors unclouded by pain.

Alone with the echo of Drift’s words.

Alone with his thoughts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one damn near broke me to write.  
> Deadlock's words to Wing got very personal, something I wasn't expecting. I've been used as someones charity project. I've been the disadvantaged, at-risk youth some upper-class saviour ignored until they need to trot you out at gatherings to show off how kind and charitable they are. You're not a person to them, you're just like the little dog they carry around in their handbag. It's utterly dehumanising. They take all the credit for anything you manage to do on your own and it becomes pointless to try. Deadlock drew from that well of disillusionment and bitter, hopeless anger. This is the result.  
> Wing in this AU doesn't deserve Deadlock's rage, but in others he very well may do. This version of Deadlock is something I want to play with more.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing is learning things he never wanted to learn.  
> Deadlock refuses to listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sexual assault and associated nastiness. 
> 
> This one is painful nasty.

Wing didn’t get very long to think that night.

Within moments of Drift locking him in the long weeks of little or no recharge caught up with Wing and dragged him deep into blessed unconsciousness. His self-repair took advantage of the rest, working so zealously it overrode the internal alarm he’d set to wake himself roughly an hour before Drift would unlock the door to let someone in.

In fact, he didn’t wake up until the first Decepticon of the day _kicked_ him into consciousness, rolling him to his belly and hoisting his aft into the air. His frame was running hot from the repair work, fuel tank showing dangerously low despite the fact that it’d been full when Drift left.

_Hyperactive self-repair drains fuel, and I’ve got a_ lot _of injuries for it to work on…_

Quick calculations ran through his mind as the Decepticon slapped at his closed valve covers. Wing groaned as he realised that even with self-repair slowing now that he was awake, he’d be offline or in stasis within a few hours if he didn’t get _something_ in his tanks.

Given what he’d learned during the first few days, wasn’t a situation Wing wanted to contemplate.

_The less responsive I am the more brutal they become..._

There was also the danger of his systems starting to cannibalise armour and protoform for material and energy to heal the worst injuries. That idea was even _less_ appealing than the thought of grovelling for more pain relief.

_I_ cannot _afford weakness in this place._

“Open up, slut.” The Decepticon growled behind him, digging impatient claws into his scuffed and dented pelvic armour in an open threat. “I’m about to give you the only good spike you’re gonna be getting today.”

The thought of being even more vulnerable to these hard and brutal mechs made Wing’s tanks churn.

Fighting the urge to scream, he brought his vocaliser online and forced himself to speak.

“If that’s the only good spike I’m getting today, how about you let me taste it?” Wing felt oddly detached, as if he was watching himself from somewhere outside his own frame as it tried to seduce this rapist.

The Decepticon hesitated, hands flexing indecisively on Wing’s pelvic armour and valve cover.

_I_ have _to do this or I’ll just weaken faster._

Wing steeled himself, forced down rising nausea and tried again, trying to provoke the mech.

“This collar won’t let me bite, if _that’s_ what you’re afraid of.”

As he suspected, this mech was like Drift in that he had arrogance in spades. Aiming to wound his pride instead of trying to flatter was all that was needed. When his time was up he left Wing was left nursing a bruised nasal ridge.

Grimacing, Wing licked at a spill of silver trickling slowly down his chin and made himself swallow the last traces of thin fluid for the metals and tiny amount of charge it held. Somehow he forced himself to keep it down as his tanks turned and threatened to rebel.

Then the odd sense of disconnection vanished and Wing almost _did_ purge as the full horror of what he’d just done slammed into him. He saw the warnings still bright on his HUD and choked on a sob as he realised just how pointless his actions had been.

In order to stay aware and alert and keep himself going until Drift arrived with his daily ration he would have to move as little as possible, needed to get as much from the visiting Decepticons as he could. Then maybe -and only _maybe-_ would he scrape through to the evening without leaving himself unconscious and vulnerable.

_What am I_ doing? _Oh Primus, what have I_ done?

Somehow, despite himself, Wing managed it.

For the entire endless day he willingly and actively degraded himself to avoid involuntary stasis, no matter what else it cost him.

Towards the end of it he could feel Aequitas reaching for him, but Wing pulled away. Carefully muting his link to the Greatsword he fought the urge to purge his tanks. He needed to center himself and get his thoughts in order before attempting to commune with the Greatsword, lest he damage or corrupt it.

_It’s only my frame. Only my pride. They aren’t touching my spark._

By the time Drift arrived Wing was too numb even to sob.

He couldn’t meet Drift’s optics or even _look_ at the mech when he grabbed Wing’s chin and forced his helm up.

Energon dribbled sluggishly from Wing’s split and chapped lipplates, oozed from raw patches in his oral cavity. Deadlock pried his mouth open to check, inspecting the damage with a knowing smirk.

Shame scorched Wing, undoubtedly colouring his aura and Field as well.

Once again Drift wiped him down without comment, removing the evidence of his day before tending to any fresh wounds and checking the state of older ones. Wing couldn’t bear the feel of those almost-gentle hands on him. He flinched and pulled away so often that eventually Drift growled with frustration and dialled up the stasis collar so he _couldn’t_ move until he was released for feeding.

Tonight Wing didn’t want to think about painkillers, unwilling to risk boosting his self-repair again.

In the end it didn’t matter.

Halfway through the next day he was facing the same decision again: suck spike of his own free will or leave himself more vulnerable to Drift’s crew.

Eventually it was lack of recharge drove him, wild and half-mad, to beg Drift for pain relief once more.

This cycle continued, over and over, with Wing losing a little more of himself each time.

“I’ve been hearing some _very_ interesting stories from my crew.” Drift said casually one night as he wiped Wing down and repaired him with a touch that might almost have been kinder than usual. “Said you’ve been behaving really well and you can suck spike like a pro. Best they’ve ever had, from what I’ve heard. And you’re _real_ keen to do it, too.”

Wing’s hobbled turbines coughed with shame as he looked away from Drift, away from Aequitas, focusing on a scrape of his own white enamel on the floor.

Strong fingers on his chin turned his helm, forcing him to look at Drift. A warning squeeze with the barest hint of claws and he forced himself to meet red optics glowing smugly where blue had once been. Desperately, Wing searched that baleful stare for any trace of the good he’d seen, so much as a _hint_ of the kindness he knew to be in Drift’s spark.

Then Drift was leaning in close, _so_ close.

Shock froze Wing in place, rendering him mute except for the mad hammering of his fuel pump as Drift came almost close enough to kiss. The scent of plain wax, energon and the scorched ions of blasterfire filled Wing’s chemoreceptors, making him dizzy. He drew in great draughts of air to cool his frame as it reacted to Drift’s proximity and the potential for something like tenderness.

“You’re learning aren’t you, Wing? You’re learning what it was like for us.” Drift whispered against his lipplates, so close and still so far. “Remember, you _know_ how to make this stop. All you have to decide is _when_.”

With that he let go and left the dazed Knight staring at his retreating frame, torn between confusion and despair.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

That night and the almost-kiss rekindled Wing’s hope for Drift, his belief in the lingering ghost of kindness in his spark. With fresh determination he tried again the next evening, and the night after that.

All continued appeals to Drift’s better nature were rejected just as the first attempt had been.

As the weeks dragged on Wing gradually stopped crawling over to lie beneath the Greatsword at nights. Despite the way it called to him, enticing, he was unwilling to contaminate Aequitas with his proximity. It was a blinding beacon, reminding Wing at all times of the light in the universe, of his vows and how low he had fallen since he last touched the blade. So Wing’s days were filled with endless degradation and pain; his nights with pain and steadily growing self-loathing.

Then –impossibly, inevitably - things got _worse_.

The Decepticons seemed to catch on to why he was so eager to have them overload down his throat.

One by one they started ignoring invitations to use his mouth, laughing at his increasingly desperate begging and taking his valve or overloading onto his back and flightpanels where he couldn’t reach to lick it off.

Nothing he said in his ruined and crackling voice could change their minds, no matter how desperately he begged. Until a mech who particularly enjoyed having the Knight’s mouth on his spike let slip that it wasn’t his ‘turn’ for that.

This was how Wing discovered that he was being monitored, his intake purposefully controlled to keep him balanced on the very knife-edge of shutdown.

His processors rebelled at the knowledge, threatening to shut down rather than accept that Drift was doing this to him. It took several days for it to sink in fully. When it finally did he started choking on air, fighting the urge to purge his tanks of what little was in them. Panic and survival protocols fought a brutal battle for supremacy, burning energy he couldn’t afford to lose.

Desperate and more than half-crazed from a combination of starvation, pain and lack of recharge, Wing was finally forced to make a decision.

_Primus forgive me, I can’t take this anymore._

All day as Decepticons satisfied their lusts with his frame Wing worked on a plan for dealing with Drift; obsessing endlessly over what to say and trying to work out the best approach to take. By the time the last Decepticon left Wing was too drained to move. He lay as he had been put, optics locked on Aequitas’ scrap-shrouded form as he waited.

Pulled between exhaustion and frantic planning Wing was so distracted he nearly jumped out of his armour when the door scraped open and the speedster entered. Drift was carrying his normal supply of cleaning cloths and a small medkit.

As usual he set the medkit aside and began wiping Wing down with impersonal thoroughness; his touch was gentle when compared to what Wing was used to now. Even though he felt unclean, unworthy of anything like kindness, Wing couldn’t help leaning into the undemanding pressure of Drift’s solvent-dampened rags, engine hitching and hiccupping as a complicated tangle of emotions threatened to overcome him

“So, Wing.” Drift’s low tone smoothed out his rough accent, making him sound more like he had in New Crystal City. “Have you had enough yet? Are you ready to leave this room and become one of us?” Wing searched impassive faceplates for some hint of Drift’s thoughts as the speedster examined the dented and torn metal of one of his cheekpieces. “You’d be able to get back at the mech who did _this_ to you. Nobody would blame you for kicking his aft.”

The idea appealed to him for the briefest of seconds before Wing shoved the thought away with a surge of nausea.

Slowly, careful not to accidentally trigger his stasis collar, Wing raised his hands and wrapped his fingers around Drift’s wrists, holding those blaster-scorched hands to his faceplates.

It was the first time he’d reached out to the other mech since he came here and it had the effect he hoped for.

Those red Decepticon optics went wide and bright, staring down at him, a faint frown of confusion and suspicion visible below Drift’s heavy grey forehelm.

“That’s not what I want.” Wing kept his voice as low and steady as he could, fighting his damaged vocaliser for every glyph. “Drift. Drift _please_ , this isn’t you. I _know_ it isn’t. It doesn’t have to be this way; you _know_ things can be different, you saw it yourself.” Despite starvation-numbed sensors he _pushed_ with his Field, pleading desperately in every way he could. “There is more to life than fighting, a universe beyond this war. I’m begging you, please let’s get out of here. Away from the war, away from these mechs.”

Something flickered in those increasingly familiar red optics and Wing chose to read it as a hopeful sign.

“You can be _more_ than this, Deadlock.” He continued, damaged hands flexing weakly around strong wrists. “There’s still light in you, I _know_ there is no matter how much you try to deny it. Wherever you choose to go I’ll go _with_ you; I swear on my swords and my spark.” Pressing Drift’s palms against his face Wing poured his entire spark into his next words, burning with sincerity, desperation and hope. “ _You don’t need to do this_. Please, Drift; let’s just _go_.”

Hope grew, wild and uncontrolled as Drift _stared_ down at him with an unreadable expression.

For a long, long moment Wing thought it might have worked.

Then Drift started laughing.

He _guffawed_ ; there was no other word for the way he laughed and slapped his thighs, waving a finger at Wing as the jet’s spark imploded, feeling as if the crystal chamber around it had just shattered into a million tiny fragments in his chest.

“Oh Wing, that was a _good_ one.” Drift wheezed when he managed to get himself back under control. “Silly mech, you _know_ that’s not going to happen. You know how to get out of this room; you _know_ how to make this stop.”

Drift patted his cheek mockingly; Wing was too stunned to flinch away.

“Prove your worth to me another way and _join us_.” Drift continued, hand sliding down to grasp Wing’s chinpiece, faceplates creasing in a snarl. “Otherwise you’ll stay right here; rewarding those brave enough to _fight_ for their beliefs instead of running and hiding. That’s what you’re doing right now, isn’t it?”

When Wing tried to look away, tried to deny the words burning their way into his spark Drift used his hold on the jet’s chin to force Wing to look back at him, squeezing until he met those baleful optics.

“You’re _hiding_ in here; _coward_. The same way you hid in your little underground paradise.” Drift spat the accusation then suddenly his snarl became thoughtful. “Or is it because you actually enjoy being treated like this, _hmm?_ ” He chuckled as if the situation was funny, as if this was some brilliant joke. “Some of you rich mechs really get off on slumming it. What do you think of it now? How does reality hold up to your little fantasies?”

Wing couldn’t answer, staring at Drift as if he’d never really seen him before.

In a way, he really hadn’t.

He remained unresponsive as Drift fed him and waited for the mech to leave before curling up on the floor and shaking, silently mourning the death of his hope and for the loss of a mech he thought he’d known.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even more bitter, even more personal in an indirect way.  
> Watching the better-offs come and play at the worst parts of your life for a day or a week to show how good and virtuous they are, to 'raise awareness' in their friends and followers about hard it is for poor little you, then they bugger off to their nice happy lives without doing a damn thing to actually HELP as if that was all they needed to do... it makes you bitter. It makes you indescribably angry. They're the worst kind of tourists.
> 
> As for Wing here, he really IS a good person. But Deadlock has seen to much of the other kind and it has blinded him to the possibility, he can't see any other way and it is a genuine tragedy. What Wing is having to do to survive he never really comprehended in a visceral way. It was all an intellectual exercise. Something that happened to OTHER people. This knowledge could make him a better person or it could break him or it could make him even more insufferably self-righteous than before. He just has to survive that long.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freedom.  
> Not how he planned; not that he has a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-graphic rape and physical abuse.
> 
> **Songs for this chapter:** [Light of the Seven](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pS-gbqbVd8c) -Ramin Djawadi, [Battle Cry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ZtMHSOq50Q) -Imagine Dragons.

Wing grieved.

He keened until his exhausted frame could take no more, until it shut down despite the almost unbearable pain consuming his spark.

Days passed but he took no notice; so lost in mourning that he barely responded to the mechs molesting him. This meant rougher treatment from those who wanted to see his pain, but right now Wing was beyond caring.

Eventually he had to accept that Drift _was_ Deadlock now, wholly and totally in both mind and spark.

Wing as no longer sure that ‘Drift’ had ever been real.

Despite everything he had said, Deadlock still treated Wing exactly the same as he had done so far.

Every night the grounder cleaned and tended Wing’s battered frame with gentle hands before feeding him his daily ration in slow sips. By now the jet was pathetically, unspeakably grateful for the flavour of plain energon rinsing the aftertaste of other fluids from his mouth. Distantly he wondered how he’d _ever_ enjoyed the taste of other mech’s fluids before this, let alone sought it out for his own pleasure.

_I can… almost see what he meant, now._

After an unknowable length of time spent in this fugue state Wing’s survival protocols kicked in, dampening the reactions of loss and focusing every spare byte of processing power to discovering a means of escape. Given his underpowered state he knew that nothing he came up with was going to be terribly successful, but at least he’d learned by now that none of _Deadlock’s_ soldiers would be willing to help him escape.

They enjoyed the use of his frame far too much for that.

The plan with the best chance of success involved waiting for something to distract the crew, or else waiting for most of them to leave the ship before making his escape. He tried _very_ hard not to think about the activities that would need most of the Decepticons to disembark.

Attacking an Autobot ship or raiding some unfortunate Neutral colony; either would work well enough for Wing’s purposes.

_Primus forgive me; I_ need _to leave this place._

With a decision finally made, Wing settled into watch and wait.

Between visits from Decepticons he made sure to practice moving slowly enough to avoid activating the stasis collar. When that was too much he rested, conserving as much energy as he could.

An entire week slipped by in this way before explosions and the sound of distant alarms sent excitement and fear surging through his frame.

The ship was under attack.

A _perfect_ diversion.

Panic rose, Wing’s spark fluttering in its crystal.

He _wasn’t ready_. He still didn’t know the layout of the ship. He’d been brought on board unconscious, unable to make a mental map of the place. None of the Decepticons had hardlined with him so he hadn’t been able to steal files of any sort. So far as he knew, his prison could be _anywhere_ on the ship relative to the shuttlebay.

If he could make it that far before being caught.

_It’s a warship; escape pods would have to be clearly marked, at least._

At this point in the war neither ships or soldiers would be easy to replace, but of the two ships would be _much_ easier to come by.

_Somehow I doubt that Primus would gift Cybertron with hotspots right now._

If Wing wanted to make his escape now the only option was trying to find an escape pod.

Strategy decided, Wing pushed himself to his knees, moving as slowly and carefully as he could to avoid activating the stasis collar. Aequitas was vibrating in his awareness, the Greatsword guiding and steadying Wing when his optics blurred and gyros seized.

It took a small eternity of breathless effort for a shaking Wing to reach the wall. Using it for support he pulled himself to his pedes, hooking trembling fingers into the slagged and half-melted scraps of armour, using them as handholds to drag himself upright. Vision came and went in waves as he fought desperately to override the effects of the stasis collar.

_One touch. That’s all I need._

Leaning his weight against the wall he held on with one hand and moved the other up the length of the blade, forcing his fingers from one promising gap to the next in an increasingly desperate search for contact. Every instinct screamed at him to move faster, but the stasis collar combined with his weakened frame kept Wing to an agonising crawl.

By now his spark was blazing fit to burn its way from his chest, an answering light pouring from the Greatsword’s partly-hidden gem. Wing gritted his denta, wanting to scream with frustration as time and again his seeking fingers passed through air instead of making that vital contact with Aequitas.

_It was still hot when they… oh_ scrap _it must have melted into the wall!_

A keen of frustration ripped from his shredded vocaliser as Wing jammed his damaged fingers deep into the largest gap he could find, scraping long lines into the chipped enamel of his armour.

The ship shuddered around him, the impact of a lucky torpedo jolting the Greatsword forward.

Wing’s fingers brushed against familiar cold/hot crystal, Aequitas’ presence flaring triumphant within his mind and spark. The Greatsword came loose, cage and all, knocked into Wing’s hands to fall with him as another explosion threw him to the deck.

Then the room seemed to tip sideways, Wing’s battered frame succumbing to the force of the impact and sucking him down into unconsciousness.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Somewhere out in the middle of a highly-contested piece of nowhere, an Autobot raiding ship limped into an Autobot-controlled spaceport. It barely made it through docking procedures before life support gave out and one engine exploded.

The crew and passengers of the raiding ship gave newly-demoted First Aid an accidentally thorough trial of his skills.

Out of all the wounded that came under his hands, it was a Flightframe that had given First Aid the most trouble. When the battle was over and all Autobot wounded repaired to the best of his ability, he found himself back beside a makeshift gurney.

Disbelief seeped through his exhaustion as First Aid scanned the jet’s abused frame again, shaking his helm silently.

_I don’t want to know exactly what they did to him, I can guess enough already._

It wasn’t so much the nameless jet’s _injuries_ that shocked First Aid, it was the mech himself.

This nameless stranger was of a completely unfamiliar build and had an unusual cast to his faceplates that First Aid hadn’t seen before.

Even more peculiar; the flyer’s chipped and filthy white armour carried no Autobrand or Decepticon badge. In fact, there was and absolutely _no_ sign that he’d worn either.

_But… but there aren’t any Neutrals left!_

It wasn’t his mystery to solve.

First Aid was going on to Delphi while the jet was going back to Iacon and the care of Lancet. The Autobot’s own Flightframe specialist would be able to do far more for this nameless stranger than First Aid ever could.

_Patched up and stabilised for stasis, but I don’t know enough about these kinds of systems…_

Sighing, First Aid made a few more notes on the neutral’s condition and the huge sword they’d found with him. Despite being unconscious the jet had refused to let go of the sword, and the weapon itself seemed to have a strange effect on those who touched it.

_Leave the Sword with him; presence of something familiar keeps him calm and stable._

With that final note First Aid locked the datapad with a medic-only code and magnetised it to the gurney beside the nameless mech’s helm. One last scan over the wrecked frame and First Aid signalled the waiting mechs to move him over to the ship heading back to Iacon.

_I’ve done everything I know how to do. If he makes it as far as Iacon then Lancet and Ratchet will get him back on his pedes in no time._

Putting the matter behind him, First Aid turned and strode in the direction of his Delphi-bound transport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! The horriffic part is out of the way. ONWARDS TO 2018 AND THE HAPPIER PART OF THE FIC!!
> 
> ~Wing doesn't know about how Cold Construction has lead to the waves of MTO mechs on both sides. His discovery of that development is a story for another fic.  
> ~I'm buggered if I know anything about the actual timeline of events in canon. For the sake of this fic Deadlock ends up on Theophany before First Aid is sent to Delphi. So now Pharma can be threatened with Deadlock AND the DJD!  
> ~Aequitas wants to stay with Wing, kthnx. It's quite happily mind-controlling everyone who picks it up to make them put it back with him by giving them an itchy-twitchy sense of 'this should be with the jet, I'll just put it back with him' that gets stronger until they do as they're told ^.^;


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet has very little to do with Wing at first.  
> This might change if Lancet has anything to say about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time-skip, compressed time, panic attacks and fluff.  
> Also my version of Lancet, medivac helicopter (or 'wescue hewipopper' as CassNiece calls them) being a little shit.
> 
> All we have for Lancet in IDW Canon so far is a name and a profession, so for this fic I’ve made him a helicopter-former and flightframe specialist medic. His personality is more stable than more famous rotor-frames like G1 Vortex and IDW Whirl, but he still has that ‘odd’ sense of humour. I made this choice of altmode for him in tribute to the local rescue helicopter and those who fly it. They’re absolute bloody legends.

Despite what everyone said, CMO Ratchet _did_ know how to delegate.

While he did help with the initial surgeries, afterwards he was quite happy to leave the nameless Neutral jet in Lancet’s capable hands. Lancet _was_ Iacon’s resident Flightframe Specialist so he was _more_ than capable of handling the mystery mech while Ratchet got on with his own work.

 _I’ve got enough work for_ four _here. I wish we hadn’t needed to send ‘Aid out to Delphi…_

While he wasn’t one of those working directly on the neutral jet, Ratchet still had to read and file the reports that came across his desk.

Given First Aid’s initial statement and the extensive starvation damage and injuries from other… forms of mistreatment that were discovered during repairs in Iacon, Lancet had requested that the jet undergo psychological evaluation when he was out of stasis and lucid.

That request was granted, of course. It was as simple as making a submission to the related department that would be taken up when the neutral was stable enough. Ratchet did raise an optical ridge when Rung requested he authorise transferring the neutral –apparently designated ‘Wing’- over to Smokescreen for a minimum number of therapeutic sessions, to be re-evaluated and possibly extended at Smokescreen’s discretion. It created a few scheduling conflicts, but nothing serious enough to be a real problem.

 _The bit about their personalities being a better match for a therapeutic relationship I_ don’t _understand; but a Flightframe responding better to someone with doorwings I do understand._

Through the regular reports crossing his desk Ratchet kept a distant, interested optic on Wing’s recovery. The jet’s courage and resilience were absolutely _astounding_. His determination to fight past what had been _months_ of systematic torture and attempt to engage with the mechs around him generated worried comments on psych reports from Rung and cautiously optimistic notes on the ones from Smokescreen.

Despite how busy Ratchet was in the main wards he was ‘over the hall’ in the Flightframe ward several time a week, for one reason or another. Sometimes he caught the odd glimpse of Wing, allowing him to confirm the mech’s progress for himself.

This wasn’t anything out of the ordinary; Ratchet had a specific subset of active processing threads dedicated to evaluating the recovery of every mech currently in Medical custody. It was just part of his job as CMO to keep tabs on who was being treated and how long they would be in there. If this particular Flightframe stood out more than the rest, it was through a combination of the unusual circumstances surrounding his arrival in Iacon and his continued Neutral status.

Then Ratchet got a very good reason to find Wing memorable.

It started out innocently enough; Ratchet was returning some freshly repaired medscanners to the Flightframe ward. When he couldn’t find Lancet he pinged the other medic’s comms. The response was instantaneous.

::I’m just working with Wing. Come on through.::

Given that Wing didn’t have access to Autobot comms, Ratchet assumed that Lancet had told the jet he was coming. It was the polite, sensible thing to do.

Unfortunately, _sensible_ didn’t exactly apply when it came to Lancet’s solidly rotor-frame sense of humour.

So Ratchet ended up wandered on into the private treatment room with case of medscanners in hand to find Lancet and Wing in an _extremely_ odd position.

Upon seeing the tangled mess of limbs that _should_ have been a patient and doctor Ratchet stopped dead, optics cycling wide as he automatically scanned both mechs. Logically he _knew_ what he was seeing; Lancet helping the neutral through the difficult process of accustoming his frame to its full range of movement after long months of inactivity. Of course, since Ratchet hadn’t expected to walk into a physical therapy session his initial thoughts were something entirely different.

_It looks like he’s trying to murder him in slow motion, maybe inventing a new method of torture? Or…_

While Ratchet was still trying to figure out what to say, Lancet casually glanced up from where he was slowly rotating Wing’s left arm in a way that would have been impossible on a mech of a different build.

“Oh good, you got the scanners back from Wheeljack.” Lancet’s voice was full of relief as he continued to work Wing’s shoulder joint. “Have you run them past the bomb squad yet?”

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

With all the painkilling programs and drugs in Wing’s systems it took him longer than normal to process spoken words. When he finally figured out what Lancet had said he froze, entire frame locking down as his damaged systems overcompensated in reaction to the effects of a stasis collar he no longer wore.

“Bomb?” He rasped, self-repair currently working on more important things than integrating his new vocaliser. “ _Bomb?_ ”

“No bomb.” A gloriously rich voice said reassuringly, shaping his words clearly and slowly. The slight academic lilt to the stranger’s glyphs had Wing hanging on every syllable. “Lancet is just making a bad joke.”

“Huh.” Wing muttered, wishing vaguely for a clearer helm despite the pain it would mean. It was hard to concentrate around the steadily growing terror of not being able to move. “It wasn’ very funny.”

“It would be funnier if you knew what Wheeljack was like in the lab.” Lancet said cheerfully, careful hands checking Wing’s locked-up joints. “The mech’s a genius but he was _never_ meant for weapons design.”

Wing made a noncommittal sound, most of his focus now on trying not to panic in a repeat of the last time his frame had locked up like this. Trying to count his vent cycles wasn’t helping because he kept losing track.

Memories of what had happened the last time he was helpless flooded through his processor, feeding the growing terror. Despite his best efforts Wing started to shake. A high, crackling sound emerged from his vocaliser as he lost the battle against fear.

 _No, not again not_ again!

Two reassuring Fields pressed against his, surrounding him with Medical harmonics and _safety/calm_. Four strong hands gently eased him more-or-less upright. Wing’s entire neural net was throwing errors, caught between the burning _need_ to escape a threat and the physical damage that made it impossible for him to do so.

“Can you slow your ventilation cycles, Wing? If I give you a count can you do that for me?” Lancet’s familiar voice was calm and authoritative. Wing tried to nod, failed and fought down a scream as Lancet continued speaking. “I’m going to shut down your motor controls, clear the excess energy and reboot them. Just like last time.”

Somehow Wing got an affirmative noise out between his clenched denta, using Lancet’s steady counting as lifeline and anchor as the Flightframe Medic opened the cover of Wing’s thoracic ports and jacked in. Familiar Medical override warnings blazed on his HUD as command strings from an external source took control of his frame. His frame went limp, motor commands completely under the rotor’s control while the Fields of the two medics encouraged Wing to trust. Lancet continued his slow counting as he drew off the electric crackle of fear-born energy to leave Wing feeling unnaturally relaxed.

“Excellent, Wing.” Lancet said, voice and Field filled with praise as he disconnected the hardline and closed the armour over Wing’s thoracic ports. “You’re doing _extremely_ well. Do you need me to keep counting for you?”

Wing thought for a moment before experimentally letting go of the rhythm Lancet had established and waiting. When his ventilations continued evenly without conscious input he sighed with relief.

“Nn-nnn.” It was the best answer Wing could make because he couldn’t get his vocaliser to produce a whole glyph. It didn’t appear to matter much, as both medics seemed to be able to understand him anyway.

Their Fields continued to embrace his as they mobilised jammed plating and arranged his limbs in a more comfortable lying position while his major motor controls went through a slow reboot. The aftermath of the panic attack combined with the side-effects of the manual bleed-off left Wing exhausted, feeling as if he could recharge right there on the floor with his helm in the strange medic’s lap.

For the first time in a long time he felt safe; both medics exuded a calm composure that regular soldiers lacked, along with a sense of self-assurance that came from competence and confidence in their skills and place in life. It definitely helped that in Wing’s blurry peripheral vision both mechs almost looked like they could have been Citadel medics with their mostly red-and-white plating and the simple, unsophisticated lines of their frames.

Vent cycles coming deeper and slower, Wing gave in to the pull of recharge.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Ratchet couldn’t hide his surprise as Wing went from forced limpness to the genuine relaxation of recharge in moments. He stared down at the elegant white-and-red helm resting in his lap, trying to sort out the confusing swell of emotions rising within him.

Now that Wing wasn’t quite so battered and gaunt, his unusual facial mould was actually quite striking. Ratchet could make out the faint tracery of laugh lines on his dermal metal underneath more recent ones of fear and pain.

“Well, that’s a first.” Lancet observed quietly, careful not to wake the sleeping jet. “You knocked a patient out with your presence alone. This is going to do _wonders_ for your reputation, Hatchet.”

“Shut up.” Ratchet murmured, unconsciously smoothing a hand over the sweeping armour projections that fanned out to frame Wing’s face in white. “And stop blowing things out of proportion.”

Nothing could keep a rotor-frame down for long, though. Especially not something as half-sparked as that. Without raising his optics from Wing’s peaceful expression, Ratchet could _feel_ Lancet smirking at him.

“Sure; whatever you say, Boss-Doc.” Lancet said, amusement thick in his Field.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Wing, he's so fuckin off his face on pain meds and code patches and tranquilisers right now it's not even funny. That stasis collar fucked him up bad.  
> Wheeljack's reputation preceeds him. As does Ratchets'. Unfortunately Wheeljack won't show up in this fic.  
> I WANT TO WRITE SO MUCH MORE WITH LANCET  
> AND FUCK I WISH ROBOTS WEREN'T SO HARD TO DRAW I CAN SEE HIM IN MY HEAD BUT MY HANDS DISOBEY


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing's physical recovery progresses.  
> If Lancet thinks Wing will stick to the program, he's _very_ wrong.  
>  It's a good thing Ratchet is there to catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Condensed time, nightmares, homesickness, SO MUCH FLUFF.

When Wing’s mobility reached a level Lancet was satisfied with, he was moved to the next stage of rehabilitation.

When Lancet said they would be leaving the Flightframe Ward, Wing reached automatically for Aequitas, intending to take it with him. He had sunk so low in Deadlock’s ship, betrayed so many of his principles in thought and action that he no longer considered himself worthy of bearing the Greatsword, but his training was stronger than the fear that he might contaminate or anger the blade.

It was the first time he had voluntarily reached for Aequitas since awakening in Iacon.

“Leave that.” Lancet’s words stopped Wing dead, his fingers hovering over the hilt, feeling a familiar welcoming crackle of static dance under the metal of his palm. “You’re not cleared to carry weapons around here.”

Nodding his understanding, Wing tucked his hands into fists at his sides and tried to ignore his quiet relief at the order and the unhappy thrumming from Aequitas. As he turned his back on the sword to follow Lancet he could see the focus-gem in the Greatsword’s hilt glowing resentfully from the corner of his optic.

Nobody would touch it, of that he was sure. None of the Autobots had so much as _looked_ at it since Wing had awoken to find his hands wrapped around the hilt and sat up to carefully place it beside his recovery bed.

 _You will be safe here_.

Wing was trying to reassure himself as much as placate the Greatsword, trying to bury the guilt he felt for being relieved that he didn’t have to face the Sword’s judgement just yet. That emotion joined the self-loathing Deadlock and his crew had seeded within him, festering quietly in the unexamined interior of his Spark as he obediently followed Lancet.

They walked in silence, Wing seeing no point in straining his slowly healing vocaliser when patience would get him answers soon enough. Across the ward and through a door Lancet stopped, waving his hand at the corridor beyond. When Wing’s optics adjusted to the lighting he blinked at the sheer length of the hallway. It appeared to run the entire length of the Flightframe ward.

According to Lancet, it did.

And walking up and down it was supposed to be the next stage of Wing’s physiotherapy.

“You can do as many laps as you like.” Lancet said, “No faster than a walk or you’ll be back on bedrest again. Your nervecircuits are still recovering from the effects of the stasis collar so what you need to practice most is carrying out normal movements.” The rotor-frame warned before he left. “Try to go too fast too soon and the damaged circuits will glitch and lock you up. This corridor is mainly used by medics and they know how fast you’re allowed to go.”

Wing took the warning to spark, although he didn’t need it at first. He spent the first two weeks slowly dragging himself up and down the hallway with one hand on the wall, needing to rest often.

As Wing struts strengthened and his neural net stabilised he was able to shuffle for longer and longer periods without needing the wall. When he could do an entire length without needing support Wing forced himself to build back up to a normal pace, working on keeping his pedesteps quiet so he didn’t draw attention from Lancet or any of the other medics working in the wards to either side of the corridor.

The whole process took far, far longer than Wing had ever thought it would.

It was _weeks_ before he was able to walk normally. It took twice as long again to re-learn how to move quietly without seizing up from feedback and neural overcompensation. His vocaliser was similarly slow to recover, low on the priority list for his self-repair.

The stubborn and headstrong nature that had often gotten him into trouble in the Citadel found a productive use for the first time in more centuries than Wing liked to think about. Every now and then he would feel something almost like amusement thrumming from Aequitas and would almost catch himself smiling before the more recent past intruded to poison his thoughts.

_Forgive me. Please, forgive me._

Whenever this happened he could feel the Greatsword’s frustration, buzzing harsh and discordant against his awareness. He _knew_ that he was doing something wrong, but he wasn’t sure what it was. For now, his fear of polluting the blade still easily outweighed the obligation to investigate.

As there were no other Knights to force him to confront the issue Wing kept his focus on his physical and mental recovery, as best he could. Once he had his full range of motion back he started practicing weapon-less forms in the corridor during quieter hours of the day. Up and down, up and down, audials alert for the sound of a door opening so he could go back to walking normally before a medic or one of the command staff caught him.

It happened a couple of times, much to Wing’s embarrassment.

The little minibot who called himself the ‘morale officer’ just winked his visor at Wing and strolled a few laps with him, chatting and accidentally (on purpose?) letting slip when he could expect certain mechs to be using the corridor. Wing thanked him for the information, although he did wonder about the apparent length and unpredictability of the Chief Medical Officer’s working hours.

_War messes with everything, I guess…_

After that particular meeting Wing gained an occasional walking buddy and found himself to be extremely grateful for the company. Chatting with Jazz distracted him from the lingering aches of healing injuries, although it stressed his vocaliser to talk for any length of time.

Having someone besides Lancet and Smokescreen to talk to also made it easier to ignore his strained relationship with Aequitas. Something Wing still didn’t feel strong enough to confront alone.

As Wing got stronger and the repairs integrated with his frame, Lancet steadily reduced the amount of painkilling programs and drugs he was on. Without the painkillers fuzzing his thoughts it got harder to ignore the firm, insistent pressure of Aequitas against his Spark; quietly and continually demanding that he acknowledge the Greatsword and what it wanted from him. It wasn’t a painful pressure so Wing continued to ignore it, pushing back against the Greatsword with dogged persistence.

While Wing had quietly hated how the drugs had left him foggy-headed and slower to react he hadn’t realised just how much the medicines had helped him recharge until he no longer had them in his systems. In attempt to compensate for the lack he increased his clandestine exercises, trying to wear himself out so it would be easier to rest.

Even when it worked, nightmares wouldn’t let him recharge for long. He would wake shaking, limbs jerking in an attempt to fight off phantom attackers.

Whenever this happened he would get up and slip out of the Flightframe ward, into the quiet corridor and walk or do forms until he was so exhausted he had no choice but to return to the Flightframe ward and lie down again.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Ratchet groaned and pressed the palms of his hands to his aching optics.

Pulling a week of double shifts on less than half the fuel and recharge his frame needed was starting to catch up with him.

_Time to call it a night._

A glance at the chronometer had him smirking to himself as he pushed himself up from his desk and switched the office lights off. Morning shift was just about to end; he’d been up so long that was now officially _early._ Very soon someone would see the light on and poke their helm in to pester him to fuel or rest.

With this in mind Ratchet decided to slip out the back way instead of heading out through the main ward where he would run the risk of bumping into annoying busybodies. It _would_ mean a longer walk to his quarters but he considered it to be an acceptable trade-off.

_Lancet’s being a real pain in my aft lately._

Flicking off the lights and leaving the door slightly open to show the office was empty, Ratchet headed out. It was safe for him to do so; there was nothing of strategic value kept there. They’d been storing all crucial information in less obvious and more heavily guarded locations since the earliest days of the war.

The ‘back door’ out of Medical was close to his office, just past a supply cupboard. Even though it was still too early for many people to be up and about Ratchet still remembered to pause and listen just in case someone was coming down the corridor in a hurry.

No pedesteps. Good.

Secure in the knowledge that the coast was clear, Ratchet slipped out and quietly pulled the door closed behind himself, turning on his heel and starting in the direction of his quarters. He was so intent on reaching his berth and falling face-first onto it that he didn’t pay attention to where he was going, reassured by the lack of audible pedesteps besides his own and trusting to memory to take him where he needed to go.

So _of course_ he almost ran right into Wing, who was conducting what looked like an extremely unauthorised series of exercises right in the middle of the otherwise empty corridor. The jet appeared completely oblivious to the near-collision, facing the opposite end of the corridor and projecting a Field thick with concentration. So Ratchet watched, deliberately throttling down programs that insisted he scan the mech for hidden injuries.

Wing was obviously not steady enough on his pedes yet to be doing what he was doing; he wavered and wobbled dangerously, flightpanels flicking out behind him in an attempt to steady himself as he balanced on one pede in the middle of the corridor. The other leg was raised somewhere out of sight, the knee joint squeaking faintly as Wing counted softly in a gently lilting accent, punching the air on every other count.

 _Lancet would have a_ fit _if he knew he was doing strike-and-kick combos out here…_

Deciding to end the unauthorised training session, Ratchet reset his vocaliser loudly. He caught the jagged flare of a surprised EMF as Wing glanced back over his shoulder turbine, wobbling dangerously. That movement cost Wing his fragile balance and Ratchet shot forward to catch the jet as he began to fall.

Wing was heavier than Ratchet expected but he was still able to scoop the small jet up with very little effort, holding him with one arm behind his knees and the other between the fluttering flightpanels to support his back.

A black-plated palm rested on the glass of Ratchet’s chest, over his sparkchamber, Wing cycling his optics up at Ratchet, obviously just as surprised by the situation as he was. He was suddenly hyperaware of the heat of the frame in his arms, the warmth of Wing’s vents as they ghosted across his armour and the way the neutral’s EMF smoothed from prickly shock to something mellow and warm that slid over his like syrup. Attempting to distract himself, Ratchet let his medical programming slip the leash, scanned the jet as Wing smiled shyly up at him, only to flush with embarrassment and relax completely in his hold.

“Well, I guess I’m busted.” The jet murmured, fingers twitching against Ratchet’s chestplate before he pulled his hand away.

“You’re still in one piece.” Ratchet said; habit and active medical programming making him take the Knight literally as he set Wing carefully back on his pedes and took half a step backwards to give him some space.

Wing smiled as if he’d been deliberately funny, the corners of his optics crinkling up. Ratchet put the odd feeling in his chestplate down to the strangely cool patch where the jet’s hand had been. In fact; every place that his armour had been in contact with Wing now felt cold and bare. He fought the urge to cross his arms, wondering why they felt strange and empty.

“Probably won’t be after you tell Lancet about this.” Wing’s expression dropped, his flightpanels drooping visibly behind him. “He’ll demand I have supervision or something.”

Quick calculations tumbled through Ratchet’s processors, but it all came down to one thing.

_He’s not one of ours. So…_

“I won’t tell him _this_ time, so long as you get clearance from him before you do practice forms again.” Ratchet’s spark warmed at the way Wing visibly perked up at those words. The jet was physically expressive in a way most Autobots just weren’t anymore and it was wonderful to see. “It’s too slagging early to be up, are you having trouble recharging?”

Grimacing, Wing nodded and fiddled with his forearm guards. Ratchet watched the flaring sweeps of metal framing Wing’s face twitch. His hands prickled with a sudden, intense sense-memory of how smooth that metal felt beneath his fingertips.

“Memory purges; and I’m not used to being this inactive.” He said with frustration obvious in the set of his armour. “Between them it’s almost impossible to initiate recharge.”

“My door is open to you if you need a friendly and completely unprofessional audial.” Ratchet said, surprising himself with the spontaneous offer. “Second one on the left through that door there.” He pointed back over his shoulder, watching Wing’s bright amber-gold optics follow the movement.

_Primus, I miss the days when everyone wasn’t in blue or red lenses…_

“If the light’s on it means I’m in.” Ratchet continued, feeling his chevron heat a little as Wing’s Field slid over his, silken and grateful. “Just knock first in case I’m working with sensitive information.”

“Thank you.” Wing’s voice was subdued, his Field warm. “I’ll remember that.”

The smile on his lips was genuine and somehow it made Ratchet feel lighter.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

During his next therapy session Wing told Smokescreen about the hallway incident.

Not every detail of it, though. He conveniently left out the fact that he had been doing practice forms instead of walking like Lancet ordered. From the way the Praxian’s doorwings flicked Wing figured that Smokescreen probably guessed that he hadn’t exactly been taking a gentle stroll but he didn’t ask anything about it as he prodded gently for details of the encounter.

Between lack of recharge, interference from faulty gyros and the painkiller programs Wing’s memory wasn’t very clear. One thing he _did_ remember was that voice; finally putting the unfamiliar, supportive grounder medic from the Flightframe ward together with the stranger in the hallway.

“I never got his designation, but I want to thank him.” Wing eventually admitted, pitching his voice low to avoid it crackling out as he spoke. “He’s helped me twice now.”

“Whoever it was, he won’t be expecting you to thank him for just doing his job,” Smokescreen said, flicking a playing card into the pile in the middle of the table. “He’ll either be confused or annoyed. It’s just how they’re coded.”

Wing frowned down at his cards, trying to figure out the best move to make as he mulled over what Smokescreen said. For all that Smokescreen pretended to be some feckless good-for-nothing who’d gotten his job by accident, the Praxian’s mind was sharper than an energy blade. His advice and occasional observations like this _showed_ it. _Especially_ the way he neatly trapped and challenged Wing when it came to the poisonous little ideas Deadlock had planted in his mind during his time in Decepticon captivity.

For some reason Wing found these therapy sessions to be more like chatting with an older friend or a relative who had more life experience; as opposed to the stilted, formal interviews with the little orange mech. This format made it easier for Wing to unburden himself while at the same time it made his homesickness that much worse. Depending on Smokescreen’s mood the Praxian could remind Wing of any number of mechs –both civilians and Knights- he’d known in New Crystal City.

_I miss the Citadel. I miss the City. I… I want to go home._

In the end Smokescreen couldn’t seem to help with identifying the Mystery Medic.

Either that, or he just didn’t want to.

It was infernally hard for Wing to figure out if Smokescreen was telling the truth or he had something in mind related to the recovery progress and had decided not to tell him in order to keep the Knight occupied.

Although, even Wing had to admit that his fragmented description of the groundframe medic could describe just about anyone.

After the therapy session, when he was back in the Flightframe ward, Wing’s keen audials picked up snatches of conversation he wasn’t meant to overhear. From what he overheard he came to understand that the Decepticons were now on a campaign of targeting Neutral colonies, killing anyone who refused to convert.

When Lancet caught Wing listening in he dropped him into forced recharge.

That night Wing dreamed of Redline and woke, shaking and sick with guilt to reach for Aequitas and press his forehelm against the focus-gem, forgetting his shame for a moment and drawing what comfort he could from the Greatsword’s steady presence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smokescreen takes a slightly less orthodox approach to sessions but that doesn't make him any less effective at making patients confront and worth through their issues. (And given the time of the night he's damn sure it was Ratchet that Wing ran into, but he's not saying.)


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing is floundering in a sea of self-doubt and homesickness.  
> Ratchet wants to help, but won't push where he isn't wanted.  
> If it wasn't for nocturnal wanderings these two would never get anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks, puking, homesickness, lonliness, pining and FLUFF.  
> Lancet deserves a medal and free drinks for life for putting up with this nonsense going on around him XD
> 
> Song for this chapter: [[Sentinel Prime] -Steve Jablonksy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XFFDG5FRbWk)

When Wing accepted his offer a little seed of hope had taken root in Ratchet’s spark. He’d tried to ignore it, tried to remember that the jet might not believe the ‘strictly unofficial’ part, but he couldn’t entirely squash the quietly optimistic part of himself that continued to hope. Especially not with the way an image of Wing’s relieved smile seemed to be burned into his memory banks.

The memory of that smile flashed into his processors whenever he heard pedesteps approaching his office door during the night-cycle. No matter how many times he told himself to stop being stupid his spark would speed up as the pedesteps got closer and seemed to drop again as they continued past. Sometimes it turned out to be another medic on business and Ratchet was hard-pressed to hide his disappointment.

_I have nothing to be disappointed about, so why do I feel like this?_

As days turned into a weeks and weeks dragged on to become months that stubborn little seed of hope had to bow before ruthless, evidence-backed logic.

Ratchet had to face facts: his offer might have been _appreciated_ but it wasn’t _needed_.

In this instance, _he_ wasn’t needed.

Wing had the best team the Autobots had to offer taking care of him; he didn’t need Ratchet pestering him too.

The reports crossing Ratchet’s desk were filled with notes about Wing’s friendly, outgoing nature so he knew that Wing would have no problem making friends. It should be enough for him to know that the jet was recovering well, fighting determinedly through the difficult recovery from his long imprisonment.

Besides; Wing _wasn’t_ an Autobot, _wasn’t_ his patient and therefore, officially, _was_ _not Ratchet’s problem_.

With this in mind Ratchet tried his best to shove the completely irrational feeling of disappointment aside and focus on doing his job.

It _should_ have been enough, but Ratchet still found himself hoping. He would be distracted by a flash of white armour, an aggravatingly common colour for Medical frametypes. Every now and then he would even wake up in the middle of a memory purge of Wing recharging peacefully with his helm in Ratchet’s lap.

Every time this happened Ratchet wished that he’d done something differently.

He could said something to make it clearer that he had made that offer to Wing not out of duty, but because he honestly _cared_.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

A few days after Wing had given up on trying to uncover the identity of the ‘Mystery Medic’ Smokescreen figured out why his memory file of the incident was so patchy.

It wasn’t just the sameness of Medic frames that led to Wing’s inability to fully recall the incident. Some of the pain-blocking programs and dreamless recharge coding patches he was prescribed had reacted in unexpected ways with his starved processors. The interactions had caused faults in his memory-writing software, which meant crucial details were missing from his recall of the event.

Like the location of the nameless medic’s office.

Wing clearly remembered the mech offering a friendly audial and telling Wing to find him in his office. But no matter how badly he yearned to take advantage of the offered kindness, Wing just _couldn’t_ _remember_ where the mech had said it was or even when to find him there.

If the problem had been a corrupted memory file he _might_ have been able to retrieve the damaged data, but you couldn’t recover something that had never been recorded in the first place.

Frustratingly, he couldn’t even ask Lancet because he didn’t even know the Mystery Medic’s name.

It was frustrating and it _hurt_ because Wing was increasingly lonely.

Loneliness was something he had experience with, but it wasn’t something he’d expected to experience when he was almost constantly surrounded by other mecha.

Despite his best efforts to be friendly and charming he made no progress. To a mech the Autobots were wary of him, rebuffing all of his advances. So far only Lancet, Jazz and Smokescreen had been openly friendly. But Wing knew all too well that at least two of those mechs were professionally _obligated_ to appear pleasantly disposed towards him.

Days turned into weeks as Wing hid his hurt, continuing to push towards full recovery from his injuries. He longed for the company of other Knights and kept an optic out for the mysterious groundframe medic during the day, but as time went on eventually even Wing’s unflagging optimism began to fade. After a while he wondered if the medic had been transferred elsewhere, but he pushed the thought aside and continued to look despite time crawling past and increasing the chances of the medic being assigned away from Iacon before Wing could see him again.

Months passed as his frame recovered but his relationships with Aequitas and the Autobots around him remained at a standstill.

By now Lancet had cut the recharge aids down to an ‘emergencies only’ option, in order to prevent long-term dependency. This made for many late nights and recharge that was patchy more often than not, so it didn’t surprise Wing one bit when once again it was extremely late in the night cycle and he just couldn’t initiate recharge.

Even though he knew that he was far too wound-up to meditate successfully he still _tried_.

Settling himself cross-legged in front of Aequitas where it stood propped against the wall, Wing offlined his optics and tried to clear his mind. A familiar mantra rose to his lipplates, quiet glyphs he whispered into the early morning stillness as he tried to ignore the way the Greatsword called to him.

_I am not yet worthy, please…_

When Wing reached the end of the mantra and began to repeat it he abruptly recalled the last time he’d whispered these words. The memory file rose up and unpacked in a rush, overwhelming the panic-stricken mech.

Phantom hands roamed across his plating, rough and possessive. The _noises_ that particular warframe made during overload filled his audials, drowning out the terrible sound he made as he purged his tanks violently across the floor. Every second of the incident replayed in high-definition slow motion that felt like hours, Wing screaming silently as his spark churned and the minutes of that encounter stretched into eternity.

When the memory replay finally released Wing he found himself lying curled on the floor next to a puddle of regurgitated energon, shaking so hard his armour rattled and extended flightpanels scraped against the wall.

Forcing his frame to stillness, Wing listened intently for the sound of approaching pedes while his dazed processor slowly caught up with reality. When it finally did he remembered where he was and relaxed. Light from the gem in Aequitas’ hilt bathed him in a faint radiance, reassuring him as the world crawled back into focus.

_Safe. Not_ there _anymore. I’m safe._

With that realisation came a crawling feeling of _filth_ that had him scrubbing his hands against his armour as if he could somehow scrub away the taint of his memories.

Suddenly unable to stay still, Wing scrambled to his pedes. He found cleaning supplies and cleaned up the sludgy, half-digested medical grade splattered on the floor and his armour, even wiping the Greatsword down before realising what he was doing and propping it hastily back in place with whispered apologies.

_I am unclean. Unworthy._

When the mess was gone Wing felt a little calmer, but recharge was further away than ever as shame closed in and threatened to smother him. There was only one thing he could think of to try to remedy the situation.

So Wing snuck through the Flightframe Ward and slipped out into the back corridor, determined to wear himself out so that recharge would come more easily. Or at least create a haze of exhaustion to better ignore Aequitas’ simmering annoyance and his own state of disgrace.

A quick check showed the corridor to be empty and dimly-lit for the night, perfect for illicit training.

Sighing, Wing walked to one end and slid into the opening stance of his favourite empty-handed practice form. The familiar movements soothed the feeling of worthlessness creeping into his spark.

_I can still do_ this _, at least._

Exertion calmed him, all other thoughts dropping away as his focus narrowed, concentrating on making each motion as perfect as his current stage of healing would allow. As he moved through the sequence of kicks, blocks and strikes the empty corridor seemed to fill with the ghosts of his fellow Knights, bringing home just how alone he was.

The only Knight for millions upon millions of lightyears, living on Autobot sufferance.

Wing’s pace slowed as his thoughts became heavier, wandering any path they possibly could to avoid the memories that had led him out here.

Back in the City, before Deadlock’s betrayal, he had enjoyed an active social life. Here most mechs were wary and avoided him due to his lack of Autobrand. Apart from a select few it was taking far more than Wing had expected to overcome suspicions. So far the easy friendliness of Jazz and the medical staff had been the exception and not the rule.

This hostility was the total opposite of how Knights were regarded in the rebuilt Crystal City.

_Rung was_ right _. He and Smokescreen warned me but I didn’t believe them. There really, truly_ aren’t _any neutrals left on Cybertron any more…_

With a heavy spark Wing stopped his forms and leaned against the wall, dragging a hand down his faceplates.

_What am I going to_ do?

Right now he had no way of getting home, no hope of buying or commandeering a ship, let alone piloting it safely off-planet if he somehow got his hands on one. If he even managed to make it out of Cybertron’s spatial territory there would still be the possibility of tracking devices or someone following him back to Theophany, bringing the war to New Crystal City.

If he hadn’t already.

Homesickness rose, overwhelming him.

_I want to go_ home _._

Homesickness aside, Wing was desperate to speak to another Knight about his damaged relationship with Aequitas. Right to the core of his spark Wing _knew_ that he had been contaminated by Deadlock and his Decepticons. He had disgraced himself in that room and was no longer worthy of bearing a Greatsword or calling himself a Knight.

_I betrayed the City and everything the Circle stands for. Everything I stand for…_ stood _for._

But for some inexplicable reason Aequitas continued to reach for him, radiating growing displeasure as Wing fought to distance himself and somehow keep his taint from fouling the Greatsword. Wing _knew_ he needed guidance; _desperately_ needed the perspective of another Knight. -Or at the very least, someone he could trust to give him an honest, unfiltered opinion.

Wing’s vents hitched and rattled as Axe’s last moments replayed in his processors, breaking the silence of the corridor. He scrubbed at his faceplates with both hands, trying to rid himself of the sense-memory of Redline’s fragmented helm splattered there.

Heavy pedesteps approached from the other end of the corridor, Wing analysing the stride and dismissing it within astroseconds. A medic that wasn’t familiar but one that wasn’t a threat; no medics were.

The pedesteps came closer, then stopped. Wing’s flightpanels and audial flares tingled as the unknown medic scanned him. He dropped his hands from his faceplates and looked up, straight into vivid green-tinted blue optics that seemed to swallow the entire universe.

“Are you alright?” The mech spoke with the Mystery Medic’s voice; low, rich and cultured, with a hint of roughness around the edges.

As if someone else had control of his frame, Wing tore his optics from the medic’s gaze and glanced over his frame, seeing him for the first time without panic, painkillers or dizzy gyros clouding his perceptions.

_Primus below; he’s not cute, he’s_ gorgeous _._

A strong, compact groundframe that still stood a head-and-a-half taller than him, all direct power and tenacity sheathed in crisp red-and-white armour with an Autobrand on his chestplate and the Deltaraan crosses blazoned clearly on both pauldrons. _Clearly_ this medic had the knowledge and skill to back up the promises made by his frame. From the lines creasing the flexible dermal metal of that handsome face Wing suspected it was exhaustion that caused the roughness in the medic’s speech.

Against his better judgement he took another, longer look at the medic, taking time to truly appreciate what he saw.

_Oh Primus save me._

For the first time in his functioning Wing’s silver glossa deserted him, leaving him floundering.

“I ah, um…” He stammered, feeling embarrassment heat his audial flares as he trailed off.

The medic’s Field brushed against his briefly, outwardly neutral but Wing could detect warmth beneath the surface calm. He was torn between the desire to lean into that warmth and the urge to back away in case he stained it.

“Homesick?” The medic sounded sympathetic and far more understanding than Wing had thought an Autobot would be when it came to his situation.

“Yes.” He said in a low voice, unable to meet those warm bluegreen optics, “Please don’t misunderstand, I _do_ appreciate the kindness and hospitality you and yours have extended to me, it’s just…” He trailed off again, trying and failing to find a polite way to word his thoughts.

“I understand; nothing can really replace the home of your Spark, not truly.” The groundframe medic finished Wing’s sentence for him. “I did mean what I said before; if you need to talk to someone strictly off the record, you _can_ come to me. You remember where me office is, right?”

Silently, Wing shook his helm as embarrassment flooded through him.

“I, um, the painkilling programs Lancet had me on interfered with memory formation.” He admitted, flightpanels drooping. “I remember that you made the offer, but I don’t remember much else.”

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Wing’s words dropped like stones into Ratchet’s tired processors and he wanted to kick himself when they finally fell into place. He pressed the palm of his hand to his chevron shield instead, projecting embarrassment more than equal to what was in Wing’s Field.

_I’m a slagging idiot._

He’d read the report but hadn’t put two and two together, and now here was Wing likely beating himself up for not remembering.

“I’m sorry, I should have realised that something like that might happen.” Ratchet muttered roughly. “It’s actually a common side-effect when certain classes of medical programs are used together.”

_Except in Ops Mecha, but he’s not Ops. He’s practically a_ civilian _, for Primus’ sake!_

“But you didn’t know what Medic Lancet had me on, so it’s not your fault either.” Wing insisted, actually looking Ratchet in the optics for a few seconds before looking away.

Something about the way he fidgeted and the sweeping helm flares brightened in infrared brought a strange flip-flopping sensation to Ratchet’s tanks. He pulled a tiny palm-sized datapad from subspace –one used commonly for interpersonal communication before the war and in short supply now- and jotted a few quick lines down before holding it out to the jet.

“Here; that shouldn’t get corrupted by side-effects.” Ratchet said, lack of recharge making him blunter than he wanted to be. Slow heat crept up into his faceplates and chevron as Wing stared at him with wide yellow optics. “That’s when and where you can find me. You know, if you ever feel like that friendly audial.”

He suppressed a shiver as Wing’s strong black fingers brushed against his hand as the jet took the small datapad. Holding it formally in both hands Wing gave a short bow and flightpanel twitch of the sort usually reserved for formal proposals. Where their Fields touched Ratchet could feel gratitude and genuine anticipation pulsing through the jet’s electromagnetic presence before it flitted away. He didn’t realise he was smiling until Wing smiled back, optics warm and bright.

Sounds of the next shift stirring sent them both hurrying towards their separate berths before either of them could say another word, but Ratchet at least fell asleep with hope and some other indefinable emotion pulling up the corners of his mouth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH NO WING, HE'S HOT! (He sorta curled up on his berth ain a pile of confused, conflicted VERY flustered jet until he dozed off.)
> 
> Poor Aequitas, poor Lancet, poor Jazz. (Those last two may or may not be conspiring behind the scenes and somehow failing to get these two to meet whenever they plan for them to)
> 
> RATCHET IS SCREWED. DREAMING ABOUT WING SNOOZING WITH HIS HEAD IN HIS LAP. Sappy bastard XD


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another nightmare and another midnight meeting lead to the beginning of a badly-needed friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homesickness and DEAR GODS SO MUCH FLUFF as the plot develops.

Wing struggled out of recharge, chased by phantom aches and a sense of weakness that he just couldn’t shake off. The strut-deep lethargy of his slowly recovering frame combined with the dream-memory of the Decepticon stasis collar, confusing the jet until he came fully online and recognised his surroundings with a soft cry of relief.

Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Wing slowly stretched his flightpanels out. Just to reassure himself that the collar really _was_ gone he swiftly snapped them closed, stifling a sob of relief when the motion commands weren’t immediately curbed by an external influence.

_It was just a dream this time. Only a dream._

Shuddering, Wing focused on his slowing his ventilation cycles and trying to get the frantic hammering of his fuel pump under control. Spreading his flightpanels wide again he brushed shaking fingers over the cables of his throat, just to check that the collar really _was_ gone.

Some inner prompting drew his optic to where Aequitas stood, propped against the wall beside his berth. The Greatsword exuded a solid sense of calm laced with invitation but Wing couldn’t bring himself to touch the blade.

With the steady decrease of recharge aids and painkilling programs his thoughts were growing ever clearer. Memories gained sharp edges and ambushed him without warning. Each time they did so he was reminded -in excruciating detail- of his state of disgrace and why he was no longer worthy of the blade. Desperate for help with the situation, Wing had brought it up once during a conversation with Smokescreen.

Smokescreen hadn’t understood his concerns at all.

The Praxian apparently thought the Greatsword was an ordinary weapon; some ceremonial thing that Wing could just pick up again. Any anxiety he had about possibly contaminating the blade was regarded as moderately irrational.

After trying a few different approaches Wing eventually stopped trying to bring it up, lost and confused as he longed for the support and understanding of his fellow Knights. They had come from all walks of life; one of them would surely understand his situation and known what -if anything- he could do to atone for his actions in that cell.

Soft light slowly dispelling the darkness of his berthroom caught Wing’s attention, drew his optics to the focus-stone glowing softly in Aequitas’ hilt.

The light spilled over his armour, feeling like a gentle reprimand, like forgiveness and benediction. Absently, Wing reached towards Aequitas, hand responding to his own yearning and a _pull_ that he could feel in his spark. Halfway there he realised what he was doing and snatched it back, pressing his palm firmly against the surface of the berth, flightpanels twitching with shame as the Greatsword’s light dimmed reproachfully.

There were no other Knights around to make Wing take up the Sword and make peace with the blade, and both of them felt the lack keenly.

Desperate to distract himself, Wing replayed the final moments of the ill-fated battle over in his processors; trying to step aside from the pain of the memories and analyse them from a strategic perspective.

The defenders of New Crystal City had taken heavy casualties before someone –likely Dai Atlas- had given the order to start blowing the tunnels. There was a slim chance that the city could have survived.

_The Metrotitan…_

Contemplating the possible annihilation of his home was just too painful. Wing deliberately chose to hope for the best; to assume that New Crystal City in some form or another had survived the Decepticon assault. With his gaze fixed on Aequitas’ dim glow, Wing let his thoughts wander down new paths.

_They saw me captured; they may assume I was taken offworld before being executed._

The Circle would have known Wing was missing the instant he failed to respond to comms or a general recall command. They would assume he was offline when he wasn’t found amongst the wounded.

Even without the evidence of his greyed-out frame.

Wing was too far from Theophany for Aequitas to communicate with other Greatswords as the blades were known to do. Without that contact there was no real way for the Circle to know if the Blade was still in one piece. For all that anyone at home knew, Wing could have been tortured to deactivation; his frame ejected into space or else incinerated along with Aequitas.

_They_ are _vulnerable without a Bearer to draw on._

Vents hitching, Wing wondered if they’d included his designation when Dai Atlas conducted the Rites for the Fallen. He knew there was a good chance they may not have. He could have been stripped of name and rank _in absentia_ if enough survivors blamed him for the massacre.

If this was so then Wing would be erased from the City’s history as if he never existed, a cautionary tale told to the next generation of acolytes trained to fill the empty spaces created by the Decepticon slaughter.

_It was all my fault. If I hadn’t brought Deadlock to the City in the first place then it_ never _would have happened…_

Aequitas’ glow strengthened again and Wing had to look away, optics stinging as guilt tightened his throat and formed a cold, leaden lump in his tanks. The Greatsword seemed to pulse on the edge of his visual feed as Wing wrapped his arms around his chest, bowing his helm as optical lubricant welled up and threatened to fall.

Pressing his forehelm between the projections of his kneepieces, Wing trembled as he tried to keep his emotions in check.

Almost of their own volition, his fingers twitched; sliding into one of the small subspace pockets along his forearm. Wing almost jumped out of his armour when he felt the edge of something flat and hard instead of the emptiness he’d expected. Slowly, he drew the object out to examine it in the dim light of his biolights as Aequitas’ presence in his spark seemed to sigh.

The mysterious object was the datapad from the groundframe medic; the one with instructions for where and when Wing could find him.

He’d almost completely forgotten he had it.

Wing turned the tiny datapad over in his hands, thinking.

According to his chronometer it was late in the night cycle, but maybe not _too_ late. The notes on the ‘pad said the mech often did overtime, staying up far later than any sane mech should. Indecision rose and Wing’s optics flicked to where Aequitas was now glowing brightly in the new swordrack beside his berth.

An imperative pulse from the Greatsword decided him.

Tucking the datapad back into subspace, Wing got up quietly.

Slipping out of the room in search of friendly company.

Leaving Aequitas behind once again.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Ratchet sighed, dropping his head into his hands.

It was late in the nightcycle and _someone_ was hovering annoyingly outside his office. This time of night only a newbie would be this unsure about just barging right on in, but they didn’t _have_ any new staff. Ratchet should know; the Autobots were in desperate need of more medics. Their understaffing issue was only getting _worse_ as the war dragged on. It was common now for Ratchet to be working late into the night, pulling hours of overtime on top of a full day-shift like he was doing right now.

Another scuffling of pedes and subtle creak of armour as the mech outside his partly-open door shifted dragged Ratchet’s attention back from the tangent it threatened to wander into.

_Whoever it is they’ve been out there for ten fraggin’ minutes now…_

Distracting him for nine of those minutes with awkward shifting and shuffling. Time that could have been better spent getting through this administrative work so he could _finally_ crawl back to his quarters and collapse into recharge.

Another creak and rustle and Ratchet finally ran out of patience, sending a very sharp message over a shortrange Autobot comm frequency.

::Just come in or sod off already.::

No response.

It was like the mech hadn’t even heard him.

With a deep sigh Ratchet pushed his chair back from the desk, getting to his pedes with a low growl from his engine. He walked as briskly as he could manage to the door and pulled it open, frowning until the identity of his guest registered with a shock like an entire vat of liquid nitrogen dumped over his frame.

It was Wing.

He’d stopped expecting the jet to take him up on his offer; but there he was in the dim night-cycle lighting with his Field full of doubt and looking so lost that Ratchet wanted to pull the smaller mech into an embrace and never let him go.

“You said I could talk to you and your light was on, but…” Wing’s voice was low and he didn’t seem to be able to meet Ratchet’s optics. “I didn’t know you were the CMO. I-I’m sorry for interrupting you. I’ll go.”

Wing turned to do as he said and something in the quick brush of his Field broke Ratchet from his state of frozen inertia. Alongside the emotional turmoil expected after an ordeal like he had suffered, Wing’s Field also held sense of retreat that shocked Ratchet to the core. Afraid that Wing wouldn’t listen, that he might ignore Ratchet and so he might lose his only chance (to do what, Ratchet wasn’t even sure) he reached out and impulsively laid a restraining hand on the jet’s upper arm.

The touch stopped Wing dead in his tracks, his Field flickering with a wild mix of emotions that worried Ratchet further.

“I meant what I said, Wing.” Ratchet said firmly. “I’m on overtime right now so you’re not interrupting anything important. Besides I, uh, thought you already knew who I was. I’m so sorry; I should have introduced myself properly, before.”

There was a flash of amber-yellow as Wing glanced at him and Ratchet got the strange feeling that the jet was looking right into his spark as he weighed the truth of his words.

“Well, it’s better late than never.” Wing’s voice was soft. He still sounded unsure and the faint buzz of his Field was full of an aching loneliness that hit Ratchet like a punch to the tanks before it vanished, the emotion gone as if it had never been. Then the jet bent at the waist, flaring glossy white flightpanels in a brief bow. “I am Wing, Knight of Light.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Knight Wing.” The proper response rose up from Ratchet’s memory banks as easily as if he’d last used it yesterday and not long centuries before. “I am Ratchet, current Chief Medical Officer of the Autobot forces. Um, would you like to come in?”

The smile Wing gave him was genuine but the shadows of darker emotions still lurked in his optics.

Ratchet silently vowed to ensure that those shadows were banished for good.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

It was the first of many meetings that took place at any and all times of the cycle.

Somehow Wing found out that Ratchet often forgot to refuel, relying on concentrated ration pellets and a morning cube to keep himself going, usually skipping the mid-cycle break and working right through the evening mess call.

After Lancet deliberately (and loudly) grumbled about Ratchet’s appalling refuelling habits during physical therapy the Knight started showing up at random to pull Ratchet away from his desk and to the nearest refuelling station. This garnered plenty of teasing but Ratchet was _perfectly_ capable of giving as good as he got.

While in public Ratchet pointedly ignored the almost unholy glee Lancet displayed every time he spotted the CMO fuelling with Wing. However he wasn’t above a little revenge in the form of delegating the more tedious paperwork to the rotor-frame medic –including the bulk of Wing’s casework. Lancet didn’t even complain, picking up the extra work with a wicked twinkle in his blue optics that promised nothing good if Ratchet rose to the bait.

So he didn’t.

As time passed Ratchet noticed that the intense feeling of isolation that would sometimes fill Wing’s Field in unguarded moments had begun to fade. Bright golden optics lost some of their shadows, the jet’s smiles becoming a little less guarded and a bit more genuine every day.

Because Ratchet no longer had in-depth reports about Wing coming across his desk he found out from the mech himself that Autobots on base were slowly beginning to accept the Knight’s presence. When they finally began to return his friendly overtures the improvement in Wing’s mood was astounding. It was like the sun had come out, especially when Wing started volunteering fresh tidbits of current Autobot gossip, along with stories of life in the neutral colony he’d come from.

So far as Ratchet knew, the story Wing had given the Officers about how he’d landed in Decepticon custody fit with current Decepticon tactics. But something about the story itself –and the way Wing had told it again in therapy- had made first Rung and then Smokescreen very suspicious.

Before officially signing responsibility for the entirety of Wing’s care and paperwork over to Lancet, Ratchet had read enough to have his own reservations about the details of Wing’s ‘official’ story. While the bulk of it did line up, there were obvious gaps that were only highlighted by what he chose to share with Ratchet. So far as Ratchet could tell from this, Wing’s lies were those of omission and concerned mechs who had nothing to do with the Autobots –apart from Wing himself. Since it wasn’t his job to go prying after things mecha didn’t want to tell him, he was content to let the situation be.

_Being nosey is for Rung, Jazz and Smokescreen. If there’s something Wing wants me to know, he’ll tell me_.

When Wing was having a particularly bad week Ratchet felt compelled to do something to cheer him up, if only a little. These kinds of wounds were well out of his purview, but he knew from experience that friends could make the healing process easier.

Somehow –through sheer determination and a good helping of luck- Ratchet managed to get his hands on some candies made to an old Vosian recipe. Wing insisted they share the rare treat so share they did. Late at night, sitting on the floor of Ratchet’s office and trading tales of their lives before the war. Harmless little stories of places they’d seen, people they’d met, tales of monkey business that may or may not have been exaggerated.

In the end it didn’t really make a difference _what_ they talked about. All that really mattered was friendly company and snatching a brief moment of calm where they could. Wing desperately needed the distraction. As for Ratchet; peaceful, pleasant moments like this were becoming fewer and farther between as the war continued and his workload only increased.

Ratchet wasn’t always able to find snacks for their late-night conversations, but that didn’t seem to bother Wing. He openly confessed to seeking Ratchet out for his company and not the candy he sometimes had in subspace.

Several times something Wing did –the way he tilted his helm or a particular way of inflecting certain words- reminded Ratchet so strongly of another mech that it started bringing back old, old memories from long before the war. When he thought about it, some of them actually made for entertaining stories.

So Ratchet found himself telling Wing things he hadn’t told anyone else.

Harmless stories of his life in pre-war Iacon and the not-entirely-legal clinic he’d run in Rodion.

To his surprise, Wing seemed to enjoy listening to these stories more than any other, his pall of homesickness fading a little as he shared his own reminiscences of Cybertron-that-was. Whenever Ratchet he could spare the time he found himself digging deeper into archived memories for that part of his life. Memories he’d never thought he’d look at again.

As they spent more time together Ratchet noticed that a lot of Wing’s tales of recent life in his Neutral colony seemed to be edited. Many times it was as if he was catching himself at the last possible second, removing or altering a designation. His Field always pulled away when he did so, going cold and rancid just before retreating out of range.

There was a deep emotional wound there that Ratchet didn’t know how to deal with.

Although he was beginning to form a theory. One he didn’t like.

Despite his suspicions, he still wasn’t going to pry.

_I’m his_ friend _, not his doctor. At least, I consider him a friend. Still not quite sure what he thinks of me_.

He trusted that Wing would him what he could when he was ready. Ratchet had meant what he said when he promised a thoroughly unprofessional audial and he would stand by that promise unless he discerned a threat to the health and security of those around him.

_Unless that happens I’m going to let him do things at his own pace._

It wasn’t likely to reach that point, as he well knew. With Smokescreen as Wing’s official therapist and Jazz keeping an Ops eye on the jet he would get help long before he became a danger to himself or those around him.

Following some vague internal prompting, Ratchet began sharing more tales of his clinic in the bowels of Rodion. Of how some of the less drug-addled guttermechs would come to keep him company in The Den when acid rain seeped down from the surface to make the streets of the Dead End even more dangerous; of the ones who would take it in turns to update him on shifting gang territories so he could change his route home.

While he spoke and Wing listened, Ratchet couldn’t help remembering one particular denizen of Rodion and who that mech had gone on to become.

And that Wing had been found on his ship.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmm, gotta love those tasty moral dilemmas! You're tapdancing in grey areas here, Ratchet. At least he avoided one lot by signing all Wing's casework datapads and junk over to Lancet.  
> ...He's gonna need another chair in his office.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing begins to take advantage of Ratchet's offer and accidentally reveals some hints about his recent past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings needed for this chapter ^.^

Ratchet was up to his optics in time-wasting busywork.

Unfortunately for him, this time it _wasn’t_ something he could pass off on someone else. This was because some utter smartaft had decided to rearrange everything in his office _except_ the furniture. For no apparent reason.

Whoever the culprit was, they had somehow managed to sneak in and carry out the prank it in the few hours between Ratchet leaving at some Primus-forsaken time of the nightcycle and coming back a few hours later when the day shift began. Given the timeframe and how quickly Jazz had declared the room safe after Ratchet reported the ‘break-in’ he privately suspected the SpecOps department to have been involved.

 _Primus, I_ hate _their training exercises_.

Already slightly groggy from lack of recharge, Ratchet had done the easier things first. Now he sorting out the datapads and files that nobody but himself or another medic trained in the Deltaran Standard Medical Filing System could handle.

Tedious, mind-numbing busywork he fervently wished it was somehow possible inflict on Jazz.

 _I’ll find out if it was them or not;_ then _I’ll get revenge._

A light tapping sound from the door interrupted him. Looking up from his filing, Ratchet saw the outline of Wing’s distinctive helm and the glow of golden optics peering cautiously around the door, something hopeful and shy flickering across his faceplates before it was replaced by his usual friendly smile. Ratchet stopped working for a moment, raising a questioning optical ridge as Wing’s gaze went slightly detached but stayed fixed on him.

“Yes, Wing?” Ratchet asked when it became obvious the jet wasn’t going to say anything.

White armour flexed and rippled as Wing started and shook himself, the smooth dermal metal around his nasal ridge wrinkling up.

“May I sit with you?” Wing spoke in a low voice, probably still trying to compensate for his slowly healing vocaliser. Whenever he did this, the sound did strange things to Ratchet’s internals. “I don’t want to be alone right now. The memories…”

A self-deprecating shrug of shoulder turbines and Wing looked away, freeing Ratchet from some strange paralysis that had fallen over him. Giving himself a little shake, Ratchet mentally translated Wing’s words from Warrior-Speak into plain Cybertronian.

 _What you mean is: ‘The memory purges are fragging awful I need someone to distract me before I start screaming_. _’_

It was a common experience in the aftermath of the things Wing had endured. Ratchet had already gone through the process several times himself and suspected he’d have many more opportunities to do so again unless the war ended soonish.

“Make yourself at home.” He said, waving a datapad to beckon Wing in. “There’s a Flightframe stool around here somewhere. Lancet uses it sometimes when he’s not pacing.”

Wing’s tense posture relaxed with a quiet whooshing of vents and he slipped into the small room. Somehow the jet seemed to bring a feeling of brightness with him despite the way dark memories hung heavily on him.

Not in a hurry to resume work, Ratchet watched Wing move. His physical recovery had been coming along in leaps and bounds and it showed in smoothly executed movement commands. Something about the way Wing walked suggested to Ratchet that he was used to having a weight at his back, and that he had trouble with adjusting his center of balance without it. He moved easily despite this, crossing the office with the grace of a dancer and looking around. Ratchet was surprised by how little sound the jet’s pedes made on the bare floor.

The click of a vocaliser resetting jolted Ratchet from his thoughts and he met Wing’s optics, the warm yellow gaze amused despite the lines of pain and fatigue creasing the soft metal around his optics. Embarrassed at having been caught staring, Ratchet turned back to his filing to hide the flush he could feel spreading slowly across his faceplates.

“I think the stool is currently occupied.” Wing’s words were accompanied by a hoarse chuckle that made Ratchet’s plating twitch. “May I borrow your chair instead?”

 _Ah, slag_.

The stool –as well as Ratchet’s desk and a broken cart currently exiled from the Medbay- were both covered in neat stacks of datapads that still needed filing. The only spaces available for Wing to sit were the floor and the office chair Ratchet wasn’t currently using.

It was a no-brainer.

“Go for it.” Ratchet silently cursed himself for not thinking. “I’m not gonna be using it for a while. Whoever rearranged everything did a _damn_ good job of making a mess.”

“May I help?” Suddenly Wing was _right there_ , close enough for Ratchet to feel the warm draft of his ventilations and smell his polish. His Field was shy and reserved but not unfriendly. “Or is it classified?”

“Uh…” Ratchet felt dizzy but his gyros reported no errors when he checked them. “I can handle it; it’s not a standard filing system. Medical-specific” Memories unpacked and he sighed, rubbing the base of his chevron with his free hand. “I swear it felt like an entire _year_ of med school was spent just _learning_ this fragging system.”

Wing’s low laugh rippled up Ratchet’s spinal struts, making him shiver with a quiet clicking as his plating flared slightly.

“Alright.” One low word and then his side felt suddenly cold as Wing moved away. Ratchet heard the distinctive _squeak-squeak_ of the damaged wheel on his office chair as Wing rolled it out from behind the desk. Then the much-abused piece of furniture creaked as the Knight settled himself on it. “I, um, you don’t mind me hanging around here, right?”

Frowning, Ratchet turned to see Wing sitting the wrong way around on the chair, with his thighs tucked under the armrests and hands resting across the top of the backrest.

The position, the way Wing relaxed completely at ease on his chair made Ratchet’s processors stall again. With the way the jet’s backstruts somehow stayed ramrod-straight it was easy to imagine the giant sword at his back, hilt rising behind his helm and the blade hanging down behind him like a short, stiff tail. Ratchet stared long enough for Wing’s flightpanels to start twitch-flicking nervously up and down as a slow infrared glow started on his cheekpieces.

Giving himself a sharp mental kick, Ratchet scrambled to pick up the dropped thread of their conversation.

“If I _minded_ I would have told you to frag off.” He said acerbically before continuing in a more normal tone. “As a matter of fact, I would enjoy the company. This is pretty damn tedious but I’ve got most mechs around here too well-trained _not_ to pester me when I’m filing.”

“Except for me.” Wing’s tone was downright playful, more of the mech he was at spark showing through the layers of pain shrouding him as he grinned.

_He must have been an absolute terror for the higher-ranked Knights, if he wasn’t one of those himself._

“Except for _you_.” Ratchet sighed with mock resignation, returned the wink with the briefest flicker of an optic before turning back to his filing.

It definitely went faster with Wing there. Or it seemed to, at least. Conversing in low voices they continued to trade stories of times long before the war. The situation felt uncannily familiar and it took a while for Ratchet to figure out precisely why it did.

“You know how I used to have that clinic back on Cybertron?” Ratchet asked, picking up the final stack of datapads. “I called it ‘The Den’ so it sounded like a bar or secret getaway if any of the Senators heard me talking about it.”

He snorted, amused by the worries of his younger self. Time had brought far worse problems to his life than the consequences of getting caught running a quasi-legal treatment centre in his spare time.

 _Although, Empurata isn’t exactly a_ minor _concern..._

“One particular two-wheeler would _always_ show up when I had bookkeeping to do.” Ratchet wondered fleetingly what had become of the mech. “Absolute _genius_ with organisational systems but couldn’t seem to find a legal way to _use_ that talent. Anyway, one day…”

When he telling finished that particular tale it took Wing while to stop chuckling, starting up all over again when Ratchet pinged him several low-resolution image captures of the event in question. The filing was finished just in time to break out midday rations and they did so without a pause in their conversation. While they fuelled, Wing got so caught up in a hilarious training tale he let slip a familiar designation, one that almost stopped Ratchet’s spark in its chamber, hanging immobile in a moment of pure disbelief.

 _No… it_ can’t _be_.

The way Wing froze for a moment when he realised what he’d said and the way he ploughed determinedly onward after the split-second of silence was _very_ telling. Fragments of data fed into diagnostic programs Ratchet didn’t usually use in wartime, forming a picture that chilled him to the core.

 _Oh, Primus below. There_ is _more to it than…_

“You know, I used to know a speedster called Drift once, too.” Ratchet said as casually as he could while sipping his midday ration, leaning against the edge of his desk since the stool was still covered in the contents of his desk drawers. “It’s not a common name for the frametype by any means; but it _was_ a fairly popular one in Rodion and West Nyon.”

That was stretching the truth by a lightyear or three, but Wing seemed to buy it.

“After I fixed that speedster up he only came back the once.” Ratchet snorted, remembering the conversation. Drift hadn’t exactly been subtle about attending Decepticon rallies before Megatron hand-picked him for his inner circle. The mech had already been replacing his drug addiction with an ideological one. “Someone dragged him in during an acid rain seepage. All he did was spout early ‘Con propaganda at me until it was safe for them to leave. I don’t know if he was showing off or trying to convert me, but I spent the entire storm fantasising about gluing his mouth shut.”

Wing shifted; his EMF drawing back and closing off as his gaze dropped to the floor. took the hint and changed the subject, not wanting to provoke the memories Wing had come here to avoid. Unfortunately, his suspicions had just been confirmed.

Not only had Wing run afoul of Deadlock, but _somehow_ he knew ‘Drift’ as well.

Even Ratchet could see that when it came to the jet’s wellbeing this was Extremely Important Information. On the verge of pinging Smokescreen he stopped, spark torn. He had _promised_ Wing that he would be an entirely unprofessional and friendly audial. Tattling to Smokescreen now would be a massive breach of Wing’s trust.

Despite the fact that Ratchet was explicitly _not_ a part of the Knight’s care team his medical programming _screamed_ at him, demanding he act while everything else in him baulked.

 _Slag it all; I’m supposed to be his_ friend _, not his doctor._

Ratchet was well aware that he wasn’t privy to whatever had come up during Wing’s sessions with Smokescreen. He had absolutely no idea if the jet had ever mentioned _Drift_. Ratchet was simply out of the loop, and for a damn good reason. His thoughts chased themselves in useless circles while Wing quietly held his gaze, his expression gone solemn as the silence dragged on.

Those shadowed golden optics decided Ratchet. Even as a friend, he didn’t think that pressuring Wing to talk about Drift or Deadlock would be beneficial right now.

Suddenly he became aware of the silence filling his office; a silence that seemed unnerving on the surface but was ultimately calm where the outer layers of their Fields brushed. Checking his chronometer, Ratchet was surprised to find out that several minutes had passed since he’d last spoken. There was nothing in his recent memory cache to indicate that Wing had said anything while he battled with himself, but somehow Ratchet felt like _something_ had been communicated.

For the life of him he couldn’t figure out what it could be.

_Wait, how long have we been staring at each other like a pair of idiots?_

Determined to lighten Wing’s mood, Ratchet reset his vocaliser and broke the silence before it could drag on and become truly awkward. He dug as many silly and potentially embarrassing stories out of his memory banks as he could, sacrificing not only his own dignity but that of several other officers in the process. Several times he was rewarded by genuine laughter from Wing that sent a pleasant thrill up his backstruts and warmed his spark despite the way he occasionally cringed and flushed with embarrassment.

The rest of his shift passed pleasantly in this way. For the first time in longer than he could recall, Ratchet was reluctant to leave the Medbay when his shift ended for a reason that wasn’t work left undone or patients untreated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love inflicting an accidentally messy office on Ratchet. I don't know why, but I just really enjoy torturing him like that XD  
> They were staring for a good while... I think they liked what they were looking at.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing falls apart.  
> Ratchet is there to catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares, referenced flashbacks, emotional breakdown 
> 
> Songs for this chapter: [[Battle Cry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ZtMHSOq50Q)] -Imagine Dragons, [[Help I'm Alive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZoK63Bk7pgw)] -Metric

Wing spotted Ratchet’s little white lie about Drift’s designation right away, but he held his glossa.

There were _plenty_ of different names carried by mechs with Drift’s particular variety of speedster build, after all.

But in the end there _were_ only so many to go around. Logically there _would_ be repeats of surface meaning despite the myriad subtle differences in inflection and harmonics used to mark individuals.

But the variant Ratchet used had been so, _so_ close to the one he remembered.

 _It can’t be the same mech_. _Primus, it just_ can’t _be_.

Wing feared to face the truth.

So for a few precious seconds he convinced himself that this ‘Drift’ was another mech entirely, despite the dreadful certainty in his spark, Then Ratchet casually mentioned the Decepticon link and Wing’s flimsy self-deception crumbled.

 _It_ was _him. Ratchet’s ‘Drift’ and Dri-Deadlock… they are the same mech._

The knowledge him awake for several nights running.

Wing sat bolt upright on his berth, staring vacantly into the dim nightcycle and hugging his knees in between attempts at meditation.

He didn’t want to recharge.

Sleep would mean more nightmares and he wasn’t strong enough to face them right now, not with this fresh data for them to feed on. He didn’t want to find out which side of them his recharging processors would put Ratchet on. He wasn’t sure which would be worse; not with the way he felt almost at peace when he was around the medic.

_I don’t think I could bear it._

That uncertainty kept him awake and doggedly going through the motions for precisely three days before Lancet noticed. He didn’t even ask _why_ Wing wasn’t sleeping, just dropped him right into forced recharge while muttering loudly about _idiots_ _who don’t ask for help when they need it_.

Somehow Wing felt that the muttering wasn’t aimed at him alone, but he never got a chance to ask. The instant his frame was given permission to idle it sucked him down into recharge so quickly he never remembered to ask what Lancet meant.

Unfortunately for Wing, his glitching systems threw off the medical overrides partway through the night cycle. He surged up out of energon-drenched nightmares to phantom pain shooting through his frame and a vocaliser in full shutdown, screaming silently into the darkened room.

The sound of fuel hammering through his lines filled his audials for a long minute before it faded, letting him hear his own sobbing vents and rattling armour.

With a massive effort of will Wing forced himself to stop shaking, manually timing his ventilation system until he felt strong enough to stand.

A desire to scrub intangible filth from his frame rose and was somehow banished as he looked down to see clean white-and-red plating bathed in Aequitas’ soft glow and not caked with… _residue,_ as he had expected.

Wing knew there was no way he could return to recharge. There was also no way he was going to find the medic on duty and admit that he was awake again.

Or why.

There was only one thing he _could_ do. What he did now whenever nightmares woke him in the darkened nightcycle of Iacon base.

With barely a glance for the Greatsword, Wing slipped out and went in search of Ratchet.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

For once, Ratchet had managed to get something like an early night.

It was still the middle of the night cycle; not that it really mattered. Lately if he reached his quarters before the clock said morning he counted it as something of a minor miracle. He’d just made it to the back corridor without running into anyone who needed him when the sound of a door opening further down caught his attention.

Despite how tired he was, Ratchet found himself hoping it would be Wing. It was an almost indescribable relief to be able to talk to someone who didn’t expect him to be the CMO, even if it was for only for a few minutes. Ratchet hadn’t realised how much the gradual fusion of ‘Ratchet’ with his rank and office had begun to wear on him until Wing started seeking him out.

The other mech was indeed Wing. Ratchet’s spark surged when he saw the familiar, elegant sweep of white touched with red, and then sank when Wing came fully into view and Ratchet got a good look at the Knight’s stance and the set of his flightpanels and armour.

 _This looks bad_ …

“Wing?” Ratchet called softly, not wanting to startle the obviously upset mech.

Wing turned in place, looking at Ratchet – _through_ him- with a strangely blank expression and optics bright with pain.

Unable to deny someone so obviously suffering, Ratchet moved slowly forwards until he stood just on the edge of Field-sensing range. As soon as Ratchet brushed the edge of the twisted snarl of _loss/pain/betrayal/desolation_ making up Wing’s electromagnetic presence his self-control shattered and Wing flung himself at the startled ambulance.

Startled, but not unready.

Ratchet opened his arms, wrapping them around the jet as he hit. He held Wing as tightly as he could as the Knight started to shake, Field bleeding wild and uncontrolled. Hoarse whines of pain drifted up from where Wing had buried his helm in the gap of Ratchet’s shoulder.

 _This is_ really _bad_.

“Come on, let’s get you out of this corridor,” Ratchet pitched his voice low, speaking as calmly as he could while firing off urgent messages to Smokescreen, Lancet, Rung; _anyone_ in Medical more qualified to deal with a mech in the middle of a meltdown than he was. “And find a place to sit down. You want to talk about it?”

Wing’s armour rattled as he shuddered hard, shaking his head fiercely enough that the wide sweeps of his cheekpieces batted softly against Ratchet’s cheek. He was quietly relieved that Wing didn’t want to discuss whatever-it-was, although he hadn’t really expected him to.

Keeping his EM presence as calm and steady as he could, Ratchet just held the Knight and quietly started panicking as all his frantic appeals for help were met with automated ‘One Moment Please’ responses.

“Alright then, no talking.” Ratchet said quietly. “Anywhere in particular you want to go?”

Another headshake. Wing’s vents started to hiccup raggedly.

Swearing internally, Ratchet ran through the available options. His processors felt like they were working in circles as he mentally cursed the unresponsive Psych Department to the Pit and back.

 _Blast it all, I’m_ no good _with this kind of slag!_

Finally, _finally_ Rung came through.

 

**_Get him somewhere quiet where he won’t be disturbed and stay with him._ ** **Don’t _pressure him to discuss what brought this on. Offer what comfort he will accept. Smokescreen and Lancet will be in contact with you should you require assistance. Will you be alright with him until morning?_**

 

Rolling his optics at the empty corridor, Ratchet responded with something that was as rude as it was short, making a decision based solely on the availability of comfortable seating.

“Would my quarters be alright?” Ratchet suggested cautiously. “Nobody will bother you there and I think you would approve of the couch. It’s enormous, and hideous.” He added the last bit almost as an afterthought, his vocaliser starting to run on as a way to vent the stress crawling through his lines. “Comfier than it looks, though.”

Wing nodded again, seeming to only be capable of vocalising that harsh, grating sound of distress.

“Alright then.”

With a plan of action firmly in place Ratchet felt a little better.

Instead of trying to dislodge Wing and make the mech walk he simply hoisted the shorter mech up so Wing’s chin was on his shoulder instead of halfway inside it. Wing promptly buried his chilled faceplates in Ratchet’s neck cables and wrapped his fingers around the back of Ratchet’s pauldrons, clinging like a scraplet. Hooking Wing’s thighs over his hips, Ratchet wrapped his arms securely around the jet, supporting him with an arm under his aft and one between the wingshoulders.

With the shivering mech safely secured Ratchet marched off in the direction of his quarters as Wing continued to shake and keen brokenly into the cables of his neck.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Wing wasn’t sure what had happened.

It must have been the sight of Ratchet there, rooted securely in a place where he fit perfectly, exhausted from long hours of helping mechs in need.

The ambulance _had_ to know the basics of what the Decepticons had done, had to have _some_ inkling of just how far Wing had fallen while in their custody and yet _there he was_ , looking at Wing with an expression full of concern, his rich voice fatigue-roughened as he spoke.

All his barriers had crumbled and Wing had flung himself at the only stability he could be certain of in this universe.

It was the genuine, unadulterated kindness in Ratchet’s Field that had finally broken him, Wing realised as Ratchet carried him through the quiet corridors. Smokescreen and Lancet maintained a carefully professional distance. The Autobots were friendly enough _now_ but didn’t exactly encourage familiarity.

Why _should_ they when he had fled this war, only returning to Cybertron because he’d been a Decepticon captive?

Wing these thoughts running through his processor Wing shook harder and held tighter as isolation and memory threatened to drown him.

Ratchet’s Field surrounded him, strong arms supported him generously and the familiar, distinctive oil-antiseptic-cadmium smell of the mech filled Wing’s chemoreceptors as he sucked in shuddering draughts of air in an attempt to cool his stressed systems. The sounds coming from his vocaliser were embarrassing but he _couldn’t stop_. All he could do was try to stay as quiet as he could while Ratchet walked.

After a while they stopped moving, Ratchet lifting his hand from between Wing’s flightpanels for a moment.

Then it was back again, supporting him against Ratchet’s chassis as they moved from brightly-lit corridor to somewhere dim and filled with the scent of the mech carrying him. With a low warning that Wing didn’t really listen to Ratchet sat, shifting Wing’s limbs with careful strength so that he was arranged comfortably without having to let go of the groundframe’s reassuring solidity.

Away from unfriendly optics, safe in Ratchet’s embrace with the medic’s Field around him and that beautiful voice murmuring words of comfort into his audial, Wing finally let himself grieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lancet is having a go at Wing, Ratchet, a couple of Autobots with his grumping there. He needs a holiday.  
> I'm so proud of Mr 'I heal frames not sparks' for how well he did when thrown in way over his head like this TuT  
> The psych team took a while to get back to Ratchet because they were trying to figure out the best course of action at near-light speeds over comms. 
> 
> Because I haven't had enough sleep lately HAVE A SHIT POEM:  
> My naem is Wing  
> an wen i sad  
> i find the doc  
> an then i cling


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing finally tells Ratchet the full story.  
> A heart-to-heart with some painful admissions leads to things they both need to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst and fluff

Wing lost all awareness of time.

His world had become an endless, static-blurred haze of emotional agony stretching out past the bounds of his awareness. It laid siege to his exhausted spark as he keened hoarsely into Ratchet’s shoulder.

Shaking uncontrollably, he clung desperately to the solid warmth of Ratchet’s frame. Somewhere in the back of Wing’s mind lurked that irrational fear that if he let go of Ratchet the medic might vanish, might evaporate and leave him alone to be consumed by the hellish landscapes of his nightmares.

So he held tight, silently pleading with Ratchet to not let go.

Miraculously, he didn’t.

After an eternity the shaking began to ease. Desperate keens faded to shuddering gasps and Wing’s ventilations cycles evened out.

Then, for no reason Wing could think of, he began to speak.

It could have been to fill the silence, or an attempt to head off the inevitable awkwardness; perhaps a plea for understanding. He didn’t know why he did it. But somehow, in scattered snatches and broken fragments of sentences, he confessed his current difficulties to the attentive mech.

Then before he could stop himself, Wing moved on to telling Ratchet the full, unadulterated events behind how he’d come to be on Deadlock’s ship.

From the beginning; when he’d first seen an unfamiliar groundframe on the cliffs of Theophany.

Continuing through the Decepticon raid of New Crystal City; too tired to continue hiding his place of origin.

A moment of horror and loathing flashed through Wing, directed at himself for betraying the city even in this small way. It passed quickly; absorbed by an overwhelming sense of futility.

_What’s the point? They may already know where it is and assume it completely gone… Just like every other Neutral settlement the Decepticons raid._

Ratchet’s reactions seemed to support that conclusion.

Deep sorrow and a sense of understanding radiated from him, surrounding Wing’s ragged Field and bringing an immeasurable sense of security and something else that took a while to penetrate Wing’s exhausted thoughts.

_He… understands_.

It was too much.

For the second time that night Wing broke down, mourning the loss of his home all over again as Ratchet held him close.

For the first time since his capture, Wing wasn’t alone as he grieved.

Wrapped in the ambulance’s arms, surrounded by the comfort and support of his Field, Wing finally felt the ache in his spark begin to ease. It gave him the strength to continue; not really knowing _why_ he felt compelled to do so, only knowing that the memories stalking his every waking moment were closing in.

If he stayed silent any longer, Wing feared they would devour him from the inside out.

_I can’t… I can’t do this anymore._

When he spoke of his imprisonment, the manipulation and degradation intended to break him the clean wash of rage that flowed over him from outside was an unexpected relief. Ratchet’s anger scoured Wing’s Field clean, going further towards cleansing his festering emotional wounds than all of Smokescreen’s professional empathy and carefully considered words. It continued; a steady blaze tempered with compassion as Wing laid bare all that Deadlock had become since rising from the gutters of Rodion.

“It... it was _working_ , too.” Wing’s voice was hoarse with fatigue and the aftermath of his earlier outburst. “I was breaking. If I hadn’t gotten out when I did, I-I don’t think I would have lasted much longer.”

He couldn’t continue, couldn’t voice the fear that he was already irreversibly contaminated by what he’d undergone, the things he had done to survive.

Strong arms pulled Wing closer, tightening protectively around him until his armour creaked.

“I’m sorry.” Ratchet’s low words against his audial startled Wing. “I’m so sorry, this _never_ should have happened. Just this once, I…” The groundframe took a long, shuddering inhalation as wet drops hit Wing’s helm crest. “I wish I hadn’t been able to save a patient. If I hadn’t, then…”

The faintest trace of self-recrimination threaded through the EM Field wrapped around Wing in a warm cocoon of safety.

“Don’t you _dare_.” The vehement growl that burst from Wing’s vocaliser surprised both of them, if Ratchet’s twitch was anything to go by. “Don’t you _dare_ try to take _any_ of the blame for this.”

Somehow Wing found the energy to sit up. He did so, supporting himself on Ratchet’s pauldrons as he stared the ambulance down. Damp trails running down Ratchet’s cheekplates barely registered as Wing’s flightpanels twitched and flared wide in reaction to the emotions surging uncontrollably through him.

“What Drift did, his actions from the _moment_ he left your clinic are nobody’s fault but his own. The consequences of those actions are _his_ to bear, _not yours_.” A fierce defensive anger was burning in Wing’s spark.

The thought of Deadlock being able to hurt this mech who had done both of them nothing but good was almost more than he could bear at that moment.

“He had many, many chances to become something other than what he has and he turned away from all of them.” Wing’s voice was firm, filled with a surety he couldn’t quite fathom. “You are in no way accountable for his choices; nobody bears the blame for any mistakes but their own.”

“Listen to what you’re saying, high-flyer.” Ratchet murmured. The crooked little smile on his face was almost too much for Wing to look at. “It applies to you too.”

Something like shame filled Wing then. He dropped Ratchet’s gaze, staring at the medic’s chestplate and wiping away the little spots of moisture that appeared on it without caring whose optics they came from.

A measure of the guilt he’d been carrying slowly lifted from his spark.

Not all of it by any means, but enough for him to start feeling some hope for the future.

“I know.” He finally admitted in a whisper that was almost too low to be heard. “And… if none of us had made the choices we did; I don’t think I would have ever gotten to meet _you_ …”

Wing almost bit his glossa. He’d admitted to _far_ too much in the harmonics of his glyphs, although he wasn’t sure exactly how familiar Ratchet was with the New Crystal City dialect.

“Nobody’s worth going through that kind of slag for, kid.” Ratchet said gruffly, before trying to lighten the mood. “And _obviously_ I haven’t thrown enough wrenches at you, if you’re talking that kind of nonsense. Remind me to fix that next time you’re near Medbay.”

It wasn’t much of a joke but Wing found himself snorting a laugh anyway, the faintest of smiles stretching his lipplates as he rolled his optics at Ratchet.

“Don’t let Lancet see you. I don’t think he would be very pleased by the extra work.”

Ratchet’s answering chuckle was weak, but it still warmed Wing’s spark.

Unable to think of anything else to say, he carefully dried the medic’s damp cheeks before giving in to the impulse to snuggle close again. The contact was soothing, relaxing in a way he hadn’t expected. It eased something deep inside of him that had been coiled hard and tight for so long he’d forgotten what it was like to be without that knot of pain.

Slowly their Fields wandered towards a calm equilibrium. When clever hands rose to tentatively stroke Wing’s backplates he sighed, almost melting against the ambulance as the last conscious tension left his frame.

_Thank you._

Exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster of the last few hours, Wing let himself follow the siren call of recharge. Relaxing into the safety and comfort of Ratchet’s embrace he let shutdown auto-initiate without a second thought.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Ratchet’s thoughts ran in tired circles his processors as Wing fell asleep in his lap for the second time in their acquaintance.

The sheer amount of _trust_ this revealed after an ordeal like the one Wing described was too much for his limited psychological programming to comprehend. More than a little annoyed with the universe in general, he pinged Wing’s entire care team with an update of the situation. The response was a three-word message from Smokescreen that had him rolling his optics at the ceiling.

_‘Well done, continue.’ As if I have_ any _idea what I’m doing!_

Leaning his helm against the back of the couch, Ratchet frowned as something occurred to him.

Apparently, the Greatsword was far more important to Wing’s psychological state than anyone in Iacon had realised. The weapon had come up often during his soliloquy, touched upon in too many different ways for it to be purely symbolic.

Ratchet’s first reaction had been to dismiss it all as purely metaphorical, but his differential diagnostic programming helpfully flagged several old memory files as being relevant. His hands slowed in their slow stroking of the sleeping jet’s backplates as he reviewed them carefully.

_First Aid and the post-surgery reports mentioned something about that sword…_

As the petting slowed Wing started to twitch, flightpanels flicking as he pressed his faceplates into the cables of Ratchet’s neck as if seeking comfort. Murmuring an apology to the sleeping mech, Ratchet resumed the slow movements of his hands over smooth armour and Wing calmed immediately.

Sighing quietly, Ratchet made a mental note to bring the subject of the Greatsword up again when Wing was more stable.

In the dimness of his unlit quarters with the warm weight of the sleeping jet in his lap, Ratchet found exhaustion finally catching up with him. He knew that they’d both be more comfortable in a berth, knew that Wing would probably appreciate waking in his _own_ berth far more than in that of a stranger; even if he was doing so alone and clearly unmolested.

But even then, Ratchet couldn’t bring himself to move.

Fatigue seemed to have set into his very struts, Wing’s sleeping weight and recharge-fuzzed Field made his spark spin slow and warm with an emotion he didn’t want to look at too closely.

It was a peaceful, precious moment he wanted to hold on to forever.

Rung’s order to give Wing any comfort he would accept made it easy for Ratchet to rationalise doing exactly what he wanted to do. So he stayed as he was and let himself doze, hands continuing their gentle motions up and down Wing’s back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fairly sure that at some points during the war Ratchet must have considered what might have happened if he hadn't saved Drift back in Rodion. Most of the time it likely wouldn't be more than fleeting half-formed thoughts, because to start second-guessing yourself in that kind of a situation leads to hesitations that will cost lives and a severe negative impact on your mental health.  
> Here, however, an exhausted Ratchet is forced to directly confront the chain of consequences that resulted in Wing's narrow escape from becoming the antithesis of everything he stands for, and being tired makes it harder to fight negative thought patterns.
> 
> GEE SMOKESCREEN YOU'RE SO HELPFUL :sarcastic slow clapping:


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The friendship between Wing and Ratchet continues to grow through mutual support and a lot of sleepiness.  
> Aequitas reaches out for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Compressed time, wheee!  
> Cuteness, fluff, Lancet being an evil little shit, Greatsword Feels.

Afterwards, Wing could only recall that night in scattered bits and pieces.

Extreme emotional stress coming immediately on top of the days without recharge did a fine job of turning memory files into a corrupted mess. He _did_ remember enough to have a general idea of what had happened, with a couple of highly embarrassing details that compelled him to make an extremely awkward apology.

Once the embarrassment caused by waking up draped over Ratchet like a living blanket had worn off a bit, of course.

It hadn’t gone quite the way Wing thought it would. Ratchet flatly refused to accept any apology for crying all over him. His gruff reply had been accompanied by a distinctly embarrassed EMF and flushed cheekplates.

_‘Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?’_

Even though weeks had passed since then, the memory still made Wing’s spark spin faster in his chest.

After that conversation it felt natural for Wing to lean against Ratchet while they fuelled or chatted, even to curl up against him or be pulled into the medic’s lap again for comfort on particularly bad days.

It became a habit, one neither of them seemed willing to break.

Wing found it particularly relaxing to curl up in the groundframe’s strong embrace. The medic’s steady Field and warm, clean armour against his own was a relief, bringing a feeling of safety and well-being.

Things Wing hadn’t felt in so long it actually took him a while to work out what it was when he finally noticed it.

After a while he realised that Ratchet’s Field quietly encouraged the physical contact. Whenever they were close, when armour brushed Wing could feel Ratchet’s EM presence go soft and open in a way that made him want to press closer, although he didn’t quite dare.

Not yet.

It was still too soon.

Instead Wing would reach out with his Field, trying to communicate without words the things he couldn’t bring himself to voice.

It was too much to hope that the developments in their relationship would go unnoticed, especially around a group as nosey as the medical division. Even when it was obvious everyone knew what was going on there wasn’t so much as a whisper of a hint of teasing about the situation.

In fact, nobody said a word until the day Ratchet fell asleep with his helm resting on Wing’s shoulder turbine.

It happened after Ratchet had gone nearly a full week without recharge, dealing with a constant flow of wounded and dying from a huge Decepticon push too close to Iacon. As for Wing, he was reeling internally from a session with Smokescreen, one dealing the events that had ended with him sobbing all over the CMO. He wasn’t going to turn down the chance to sit in peace and quiet with someone who wasn’t side-eyeing his lack of Autobrand or asking difficult questions -or both.

Conversation died off naturally while they drank their midday fuel and never really resumed afterwards. Wing leaned into the warmth of the mech beside him, shifting to avoid an uncomfortable kibble clash and feeling Ratchet’s Field welcome him.

Sighing deeply, Wing tipped his helm back to rest against the back of the couch just as Ratchet mumbled something about being too comfortable to get up. A second later the medic’s Field became a plush well of exhaustion as recharge claimed him and Wing froze as a weight settled gently against his turbine.

A glance sideways confirmed that it was indeed Ratchet, and yes the medic _was_ using him as a pillow. With his spark spinning warm and fast, Wing figured Ratchet would wake at the end of the refuel break and let him be, trying to embed the moment deeply in his memory banks.

When the refuel break ended with Ratchet still asleep and his vents whistling in soft snores, Wing pinged the first mech he could think of for help.

By the time Lancet poked his head into the rarely-used break room Wing was ready to fall asleep himself, staying awake only through a massive effort of will. His silent appeals for help went unacknowledged as Lancet took in the situation.

Then the rotor-frame medic’s optics lit up and a grin split his face nearly in two.

_That’s not very reassuring…_

“Better let him wake up on his own.” Lancet advised in a low voice. “Unless you want to find out first-hand why his nickname is what it is. May as well grab some rest yourself. Pleasant recharge, Wing.”

With that Lancet vanished and Wing heard the rustle and squeak of plasfilm and ink-stick before pedesteps clicked away down the corridor.

Telling his curiosity to go get buried, Wing sank back into the comfort of the situation and soon joined Ratchet in a recharge that was completely untroubled by nightmares.

Later on he discovered that Lancet had tacked a warning message to the door, scrawling ‘Sleeping Hatchet Inside’ on a sheet of reused plasfilm.

These warning signs were apparently fairly common. Wing respected them for about a week, until he discovered that he had some sort of immunity to the infamous rage of a Disturbed Hatchet. Ratchet very rarely woke when it was Wing who entered a room, and when he _did_ wake it was with a warm, sleepy almost-smile on his face that vanished as soon as Ratchet was awake enough to be aware of the situation.

After a while Wing began making some of those warning signs himself, as the CMO’s workload began a steady climb that resulted in Ratchet pulling longer and longer shifts.

It wasn’t just Ratchet; the entire medical staff was coming under increased strain as the Decepticons launched a systematic testing of Iacon’s defences that had the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

And Wing could do nothing except watch and wait, wondering how long it would be until those defences finally crumbled like those of the home he’d lost.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Ratchet looked up from his work to find Wing losing the battle against recharge once again.

It was a common occurrence now that the jet felt comfortable enough to relax around him. His frame was still recovering from the effects of his imprisonment and desperately needed the rest for self-repair to work most effectively.

Carefully hiding his smile behind a datapad, he watched the Knight nod off on a sinfully comfortable couch the medical team somehow scored for their rec room. His thoughts wandered towards the blanket in his subspace, one he’d woken to find draped over his frame one time when exhaustion had claimed him at his desk.

Briefly, Ratchet contemplated waiting for Wing to fall asleep and using the chance to return both the favour and the blanket.

_Better not; as comfortable as he looks now, if he recharges like that he’s gonna wake up with aching flightpanels and one Pit of a sore back…_

Reluctantly Ratchet locked his datapad and tucked it into subspace, making sure to stretch the kinks from his struts and cables as he stood up.

Wing was tucked into the corner of the couch, leaning on the arm of it with his helm resting on his crossed forearms. His flightpanels had relaxed from their neat tuck at his back and one was jammed into the cushions while the other twitched in response to the air currents of the room. He didn’t stir as Ratchet moved around, only twitching and mumbling when he came close enough for their Fields to brush.

“Come on, you.” Ratchet kept his voice low, hoping nobody was walking past to hear his affectionate subglyphs. “You can’t recharge there.”

Wing batted at his hands when he tried to pull the sleepy jet to his pedes, looking more adorable than a fighter had any right to as his yellow optics opened a sliver and he glared up at Ratchet.

“But I’m _comfy_ , and _you’re_ here.” He complained sleepily, underlining his point with a grumble from flight engines.

Diplomatically deciding to ignore the second part of that sentence Ratchet somehow got a solid grip on Wing and pulled him to his pedes. As soon as he let go the jet made to fall right back onto the couch, forcing Ratchet to grab him again to keep him upright.

“You won’t be so comfy when you wake up, flyboy.” Ratchet said with a sigh, wrapping his arms around Wing as the jet sagged against him with a contented sigh to match the fuzzy warmth of his Field. “Let’s get you to a proper berth.”

“Mmm, _your_ berth?” Wing perked up slightly as Ratchet hooked an arm around his waist, steering him towards the door. “Looks as comfy as your couch.”

“Nope.” Ratchet said firmly, stomping on the part of him that wanted to wake up cuddling a pretty jet. “You’re going to your own berth to get a decent rest.”

Wing didn’t seem to like the idea very much but he stood no chance against the determined –and fully awake- medic. Despite his sleepy complaints he ended up in his own room, lying belly-down in a comfortable sprawl across the Flightframe-grade berth.

As Ratchet pulled a light thermal cover over smooth white armour a soft glow from the corner caught his attention. After making sure Wing’s flightpanels were clear of blanket he went to investigate the source of the light.

_Huh_.

The glow was coming from the massive sword Wing had arrived with. It was currently resting in a borrowed weapons’ stand. Ratchet frowned as his optics adjusted to the low light.

Something didn’t seem right.

Every single fighter Ratchet knew cared for and tended their weapons with the same care and dedication that Medics used for the tools of their trade. For that reason alone Ratchet would have been shocked by the thin layer of dust that had gathered on the sword, but there was something else.

From what he could recall of Wing’s early files and what he’d gathered from conversations with the Knight, this Greatsword was incredibly important to both Wing and those who’d taught him.

To see an object of great emotional and personal importance neglected like this sent chills through Ratchet. It confirmed his suspicion that Wing was being kept in the Flightframe Ward for more reasons than the effects of starvation and stasis collar overuse complicating his physical recovery.

_This… doesn’t look good._

Impulsively he reached out, intending to wipe the dust from the jewel worked into the hilt, but stopped with his fingertips scant millimetres from contact. Something almost like an EM Field buzzed against the sensors of his hand.

Dragging his fingertips through that faint prickling, Ratchet tried to analyse the readings he was getting.

_If I didn’t know any better I’d say that was sadness, longing and… a request for help?_

Deciding he must be more tired than he thought if he was indulging in such foolishness, Ratchet snatched his hand away from that strange, tingling almost-Field and left Wing’s room as quickly as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are both in desperate need of safe, friendly physical contact that isn't work-related TuT  
> The entire fucking medical division are walking on eggshells trying not to ruin this magical thing that has happened to mellow Ratchet out a bit. ALL HE NEEDED WAS A FRIEND.  
> Wing just wanted to cuddle. He wants Ratchet Snuggles. ALL THE RATCHET SNUGGLES. And maybe also access to the big comfy berth to sprawl out on. His isn't as big as he'd like ^.^;


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When faced with a problem -no matter how mystical- Ratchet will tackle it in his own inimitable fashion.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greatsword feels.  
> SO MANY FEELS.

Despite the amount of extra work created by the current Decepticon push, Ratchet still made time for a personal project.

Late at night he would spend an hour or two diving into the Iacon Archives via remote access, pulling up every scrap of information available about the Circle of Light and the Greatswords. He dug deep; delving into military history, anthropology, dissertations of fighting styles, even religious tomes and collections of mythology about the original order of the Knights of Light that read more like the fairy stories of alien species than anything else he’d ever read.

It took far longer than he expected.

Initial search queries came back with _thousands_ of hits. Refining them only shaved a few hundred less-likely candidates off.

Downloading a few hundred at a time, Ratchet skimmed them in his spare time or when he was working on something that allowed him to split his attention. He made a small file for the small number of useful pieces of information he managed to tease out of the mountains of text he sifted through –including some things that seemed silly at first but popped up too often to be ignored.

Slowly but surely a pattern began to emerge.

If Ratchet hadn’t been who he was, if he hadn’t been friends with both Orion and Optimus, if he hadn’t held the Matrix in his hands and seen what it had done to a string of Primes then he would have dismissed his findings.

On the surface they were completely absurd, no matter which way you looked at them.

But he had _seen_.

Ratchet had encountered the Matrix -the _real_ Matrix- and he knew that there were other Cybertronian artefacts with certain... _properties_ floating around the galaxy.

Given what he’d managed to glean from the archives it would stand to reason that the Knights, this Circle that Wing referred to, had some of those artefacts. In the privacy of his quarters, Ratchet frowned at his datapad, fingers prickling with the memory of the almost-EMF he’d felt emanating from the blade.

 _So what_ are _they, exactly?_

Figuring out what the Greatsword was would have to wait.

Right now Ratchet’s priority had to be working out what had gone wrong and fixing it.

It was glaringly obvious to him that something wasn’t right about the situation and whatever it was, it was deeply upsetting to Wing. Despite what he had discovered he still drew a blank when it came to figuring out what had happened and what to do about it. He made and discarded dozens of plans, making no headway as the days crawled slowly by.

 _I want to help, slag it all. He’s my_ friend!

It was galling to discover a problem he couldn’t seem to do anything about. Especially when Wing was turning out to be a better friend than he had ever anticipated. More times than Ratchet could count he woke from an unintended nap at his desk to find a blanket draped over him and a sealed cube of energon nearby, accompanied by a note in Wing’s elegant handwriting reminding him to fuel.

Almost as often he ended up carrying a sleepy and uncooperative jet back to the long-term patients ward after Wing slid into recharge in his office. The jet was determined to keep Ratchet company during the insane amounts of overtime he was doing to keep up with everything.

In the end, Ratchet didn’t actually _need_ a plan at all.

It was an evening like too many lately. Ratchet was working late _again_ , with Wing nodding off on the comfy, Flightframe-style chair that now lived in a corner of Ratchet’s office.

After an hour of watching Wing fight off recharge Ratchet had called it a night, closing and code-locking his terminal before pulling the jet to his pedes and walking him back to his room.

By now he’d learned that he had to make sure that Wing was actually lying on the berth before he left, or else the Knight would fall asleep sitting up. Or worse; decide he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep without nightmares and spend the rest of the night pacing up and down the medical division’s long back corridor.

Tonight Wing didn’t do much more than sigh as he sat on the flyer-grade berth, cycling his vents in a yawn. Cooperation was a nice change from the sleepy complaints and adorably grumpy Field he usually got when dragging the Knight to bed.

Ratchet was on the verge of bidding Wing goodnight and leaving when his optics were drawn to the Greatsword.

It sat where he remembered, looking almost forlorn in the battered old weapon-stand. The whole setup looked completely out of place in a patient’s room, even in the long-term ward, but Ratchet had seen weirder things. It didn’t escape his notice that the dust he’d seen last time still clung the Greatsword, looking slightly thicker than he remembered.

The blade looked abandoned, unloved.

 _I_ really _need more recharge if I’m starting to think slag like that._

Still, he knew it was something that needed to be dealt with so Wing could continue moving forward. It was Something Important and Ratchet knew he was one of the least qualified mechs for figuring out how or why.

But he knew he had to try.

For Wing.

For the friend that meant more to him than he realised.

_It’s now or never…_

“So you’ve got permission to carry this on base now, yeah?” Ratchet asked casually, gesturing at the sword.

Wing’s optics followed the motion of his hand and he flinched noticeably when his optics landed on the sword. His Field churned, pulling away so fast Ratchet almost leaned after it. Elegant white armour flattened as Wing looked away, optics and biolights darkening.

Only several centuries of practice let Ratchet hide his frown at the reaction.

“I… do now, yes.” The words were soft, almost inaudible.

“So why not?” It took every last atom of titanium in Ratchet’s frame for him to continue speaking. “Most mecha here know of the Order and would show you more respect than you’ve been getting if they saw you with it. Evidence of your status and all that slag.” He snorted through his vents. “At the very _least_ they’d take you and your skills seriously whenever Lancet lets you near the sparring ring.”

It was one of the hardest things Ratchet had ever done, forcing himself to watch as Wing gradually crumpled beneath his words, doing nothing while the white jet shrunk into himself on the berth.

Only the certainty in his spark and coding that this was _needed_ kept him from wavering.

 

### ~V~V~V~

_So why not?_

The words repeated in Wing’s processors, echoes upon echoes tumbling over and over, freezing him in place while Ratchet stood there, waiting for an answer that Wing didn’t have.

_Indeed… why not?_

He couldn’t tell if the words came from his own processors or had whispered instead been from the Greatswords’ quiet presence in his Spark. Of their own accord, his optics flicked back to the blade.

Aequitas seemed almost accusing where it sat patiently, abandoned in the swordrack. Ratchet’s frame was a flimsy barrier between Wing and the relic that he had failed so utterly. The gem in the Greatsword’s hilt flared, flickering with inner fire as Ratchet shifted his weight from one pede to another.

“So why _don’t_ you?” Ratchet asked again, pressing when Wing would definitely prefer that he dropped the subject. “You’ve got to have a reason. Doesn’t matter how silly you think that reason is; if it’s bothering you then it’s important.”

Ratchet’s voice softened as he spoke and suddenly he was right there, crossing the small room as his Field wrapped Wing in a cocoon of support and encouragement. One red hand rested on a turbine while the fingers of the other slid gently along Wing’s jaw, cupping his face and forcing him to look up at the medic.

Aequitas flared in the background; a flash of cold blue fire that _pushed_ at the barrier Wing had tried to create around his mind and spark in an attempt to protect the Sword.

 _I am tainted;_ unworthy _._

He couldn’t lie, not to those warm bluegreen optics and the gentleness with which Ratchet touched him as his Field wisped awkwardly out.

“You _know_ what they did to me, Ratchet.” He whispered, feeling fresh pain rip through his spark as tears began to flow. “I… am not fit to be a Knight of the Light. Not anymore.”

The admission was agonising.

Finally voiced and made real, Wing could no longer pretend that things might be otherwise. It ripped him open anew and he teetered on the edge of a grief he didn’t know how to handle.

 _Everything I am, everything I_ was _… Everything I stood for and believed in… gone. Wasted, ruined_ useless _._

A single optical ridge rose as Ratchet gazed down at him, contemplating Wing’s words while one finely-tooled thumb smoothed his tears away.

“Well; that’s the biggest pile of absolute _scrap_ I’ve ever heard.” Ratchet declared, his Field adamant.

Blindsided, Wing gaped in astonishment as the medic turned, striding across the room towards the Greatsword. He reached for it, obviously meaning to pick it up. Memories of rage, burned metal and Deadlock’s ugly cursing surged up, filling Wing with acid-sharp panic.

_Wait! No, don’t!_

The shout died in his throat, vocaliser crackling and shorting as Ratchet scooped Aequitas up, cradling the Greatsword in both dexterous hands.

_Ratchet, no…_

Expecting the worst, Wing surged to his pedes, arms outstretched and ready to snatch the blade or knock it aside before it could injure Ratchet the same way it had maimed Deadlock. Aequitas’ presence surged in his spark, splendid and triumphant. Stunned, Wing watched as the jewel in its hilt blazed into life.

Haloed in blue-white fire Ratchet turned, holding the Greatsword out to Wing.

“Stop being a slagging idiot and _talk to your damn sword_.” Ratchet said firmly.

The words seemed to echo in the small room, filled with a power that shook Wing to the core. It resonated into and through him, spark reverberating in its chamber as his jaw dropped and he _stared_ at Ratchet in a state of perfect shock.

While the wording was quintessentially _Ratchet_ , everything else about the situation was decidedly _not_.

Wing cycled his optics once, twice, as Ratchet continued to stand there patiently holding Aequitas. Bright amusement slowly threaded its way through the deadly seriousness of the medic’s Field, shining in his optics as he waited for Wing to react.

_Ah, he sees the funny side too._

Finally the tension reached a peak, bursting out of Wing in wild, uncontrollable laughter. His Field flared out, butting against the medic’s and meeting a wall of _understanding/concern/support_.

Months of stress melted away in a nearly hysterical outpouring of mirth that ended with Wing bent over, supporting himself on the edge of his berth with one hand while his ventilation systems strained, gasping for cooler air.

When he finally had control of himself again he looked up to see Ratchet standing there with a lopsided grin on his face, obviously self-conscious as Wing stepped forwards to properly reclaim the Greatsword.

Slowly, carefully he reached out. For a moment he hesitated, then he forced his fear aside and touched Aequitas properly for the first time in many long months. One hand curled around the blade, the other slipped under the focus-gem in the hilt, trembling fingers curling to cradle it as he lifted the Greatsword from Ratchet’s hands.

Once again the Greatsword blazed into life. All of the barriers Wing had erected around his spark in an attempt to keep from tainting Aequitas crumpled, every single one blasted away as if they had been made of gauze.

Something bright and fierce and glorious surged into his very soul.

In a single lightning-strike of transcendent power Aequitas reaffirmed its choice in bearer, reclaiming Wing as its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet really doesn't beat around the bush, does he? XD Methinks Aequitas has bitten off more than it can chew OuO  
> "Stop being a slagging idiot and TALK TO YOUR DAMN SWORD" is one of my all-time favourites of lines that I've written.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After reconnecting with Aequitas, Wing's progress increases in leaps and bounds.  
> It takes a Decepticon attack to remind him of the limitations of his current status.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
> Referenced/mentioned blood and carnage. An enraged rotor-frame medic. Paperwork.

That moment dominated Ratchet’s thoughts for _months_ afterwards.

The expression on Wing’s face, the hesitancy in his Field as he reached for the heavy Greatsword and the _shock_ as the artefact surged into life. It had matched Ratchet’s jaw-dropped surprise as some strange power erupted from the sword between them, filling the room before spiralling inwards to ground itself in Wing’s frame.

It was like nothing he had encountered before; not even The Matrix itself had been that single-minded.

After being at the center of that event Ratchet _understood_ Wing’s concerns in a way he couldn’t put into words. Immediately afterwards, while Wing was still glowing, Ratchet remembered something he’d read. Something about bonded Greatswords demanding restitution from their bearers for conduct unbecoming a Knight. He felt a creeping sense of dread when Wing confirmed that something of the sort would be needed, but after offering to help (if he even could) Ratchet hadn’t pressed the issue.

_It’s none of my business._

However, he _did_ wonder what kind of an artefact would chose to be bound to someone as pigheaded stubborn as he knew Wing could be –and hoped it wouldn’t be too hard on him.

Thoughts like this usually occurred when Ratchet was low on recharge, struggling to deal with with the steadily increasing flow of casualties from Decepticon assaults on Iacon’s defences and the administrative work there simply _wasn’t enough time_ to keep up with anymore.

Whatever restitution the Greatsword had demanded –if anything at all- it didn’t leave any outward signs Ratchet could see. In fact, from that night onwards Wing’s emotional and mental state improved in leaps and bounds. Ratchet was quietly overjoyed by the steady lightening of Wing’s Field and the playful nature that acted as a welcome antidote to the growing stresses of his job.

Then Wing began to carry the sword with him, altering his already distinctive silhouette.

After the initial reactions of shock and outrage faded the soldiers finally started to accept that Wing was a fighter, a warrior like themselves and not some soft civilian. It made the Autobots a little more accepting of his tactile nature, although he still shied away from certain frametypes when startled. Sometimes Ratchet thought that Wing seemed just a tiny bit cuddlier with him than he was with others, but his pragmatic side brushed it off as wishful thinking.

While Lancet still hadn’t cleared Wing for sparring, a gleefully excited jet ambushed Ratchet on the day he was finally given _official_ permission to do practice patterns in the training rooms. Wing had pounced him in the medic’s rec room, hugging Ratchet tightly as pure delight burned through his Field and lit his faceplates with a radiant smile.

It was so beautiful that Ratchet came within an inch of wrapping his arms around the mech and kissing him in some crazy attempt to taste that joy.

If there hadn’t been a very amused audience watching their notoriously cranky CMO being tackle-glomped he probably _would_ have, and no doubt ruined Wing’s good mood in the process.

_He’s tactile with everyone he’s friends with; just because I’m closer to him than most it doesn’t mean he’d appreciate me doing_ that _._

After that Wing seemed to come into his own, finding a place where he fit around the insanity that life in Iacon was becoming.

One evening after the tackle-hug incident, Jazz slipped into Ratchet’s office for a strictly unofficial discussion about the neutral Knight.

What Ratchet had been too tired to notice was that Wing had becoming one of the unofficial morale-boosters of the medical wards. He _also_ hadn’t known that Wing had quietly taken over tidying the medic-only rec rooms -as well as making sure their energon dispensers were always full and stocked with the correct grades. _Apparently_ the jet had even gone so far as to check with Autobot Intelligence when candy addressed to the medics showed up out of the blue.

“Mech’s got good instincts.” Jazz said approvingly, sitting on the corner of Ratchet’s desk. “He’d be a real asset to the Autobots if he could get over his hangups about joining.”

Ratchet shrugged, plugging tiredly away at some administrative nonsense that was just barely too classified for him to delegate. It was public knowledge that with Deadlock back in action the Decepticons had gained the upper hand in the war, but what Jazz was suggesting turned his tanks.

_We need everyone we can get, but…_

“I’m _not_ going to try talking him into it for you, so don’t fragging try.” Ratchet’s voice was hoarse with exhaustion, but the rumble from his engine seemed to be enough to convince Jazz to drop the subject for the evening.

“Didn’t even cross m’mind.” Jazz lied smoothly, sliding off Ratchet’s desk. “I was just stating a fact.”

“Unless you’re going to help me with this you can take your facts and shove them.” The growl was louder this time, Ratchet’s Field filled with protective anger and the prickly short temper that came with chronic lack of recharge. “I need to get this done so I can recharge while it’s still night cycle.”

Unsurprisingly, when faced with the threat of paperwork Jazz all but evaporated.

When Ratchet was alone he sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.

_I can’t._

Wing had already lost his home twice over –once in leaving Cybertron and again when the Decepticons invaded the colony he’d helped build. After the second loss he’d been imprisoned for months, deliberately subjected to some of the worst abuses Cybertronians could inflict on one another with the aim of breaking him down and remaking him in Deadlock’s image.

The image of a survivor, one that slaughtered all who stood in his way.

_We_ need _him, but…_

But Ratchet was a medic. A _healer_. Right down to the final photon of his spark.

No matter how badly the Autobots might need Wing there was no way he could bring himself to convince the jet to go back into hell. If Wing decided to on his own then he would welcome it, but Ratchet would play no part in persuading him to it.

_Hasn’t he been through enough?_

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Wing was meditating when it happened.

When he heard the All Hands Defence Alert sound in Iacon for the first time.

Action came before thought. On his pedes in flash, sliding Aequitas into place at his back as he ran for the door.

It didn’t open.

Wing ploughed face-first into the stubbornly unmoving surface, earning himself a bruised nasal ridge and unpleasantly scraped kibble. Cycling his watering optics Wing punched his code in with sharp, quick jabs of a finger. He was brought back to reality with an unpleasant jolt when a recorded message informed him that as a Neutral Noncombatant he was to remain in his assigned quarters until the All-Clear or an Evacuation was broadcast.

It would take too much energy to attempt a hack, and locked door wasn’t worth drawing Aequitas for.

Effectively thwarted, Wing snarled and flared his armour at the stubbornly closed door.

With nothing to do but wait while others fought he paced the confines of room with flightpanels twitching, broadcasting agitation to the uncaring walls while strip lighting around the edge of the ceiling bathed the room in the muted energon-pink of a high level alert.

The hours crawled by, mostly silent after the sirens cut off mid-wail.

Eventually he had to force himself to stop pacing and sit down, having burned through a full third of his fuel without knowing if or when he’d be required to fight.

Wing knew all too well that patience wasn’t his strong suit, but centuries of training _had_ given him options when it came to enforced idleness. He sank into meditation more easily than he had since discovering Drift –Deadlock- wandering the deserts of Theophany, unfocused gaze fixed on the door as he waited for the first Decepticon to enter. Pushing his audials to the limits, Wing strained to pick up the smallest sound from the corridor outside.

_Come to me…_

Having a working chronometer again was both a blessing and a curse. He watched the slow minutes and slower hours crawl by, flightpanels twitching every now and then at the faint vibrations of distant battle shivering through the base.

The wait was agony.

The desire, the _need_ to be out there fighting alongside the defenders seared Wing’s spark. His turbines heated, flaps trimming and adjusting as the rest of his armour rattled with abortive motion commands.

Hours later a preliminary stand-down sounded, warbling dissonantly. Finally Wing stood, stretching cramped limbs and forcing his systems down from battle-readiness with a massive effort of will.

It took more long, silent hours before someone patched into the local broadcast system, announcing the all-clear in a voice that crackled with exhaustion.

Initial response and clean-up would take longer than the battle itself, as Wing knew well from hard experience. So he settled back down again to wait, kneeling in the middle of his assigned room. Slipping back into meditation was easier than anything he’d done since the attack on New Crystal City.

News arrived with fuel; an exhausted and energon-splattered Lancet having been forced out for a break and choosing to update Wing on the situation instead.

“And nobody’s bleeding or freaking out about missing limbs in here.” The rotor-frame said bitterly, leaning against the edge of Wing’s berth. A long line of singed metal caught the light as she shook his helm. “This one was bad, _real_ bad. Everyone’s gonna be on edge for a while. Expect what you were treated like when you first left medical and worse.”

This became the pattern for several days while the Autobots tried to recover from the attack. The alert status was slowly downgraded, but never low enough for Wing’s door to unlock. So he stayed in his room; recharging, meditating or doing training patterns until Lancet or Jazz brought fuel and conversation, keeping him in the loop.

Everyone was on edge, waiting nervously for the Decepticons to attack again while they were weakened.

Then three days after the battle Lancet _slammed_ into Wing’s room, grabbed him by the collar armour and started physically _dragging_ the startled jet out the door.

If it hadn’t been for instinct-level coding to _not_ attack someone broadcasting medical frequencies Wing would have defended himself with extreme prejudice. As it was, he let the rotor-frame drag him along, projecting _compliance/confusion/please explain_ while trying not to run into any of the startled-looking mechs Lancet hauled him past.

“The slagging idiotic _glitch_ of a ground-pounder has been going nonstop since the alert.” Lancet snarled, the slim blades of his rotors rattling against his back. “Stim-sticks, patches and emergency rations are _no_ substitute for fuel and proper recharge and the megabyte-processered slagpile _damn well knows it_.”

_Huh?!_

Since Lancet was now towing him into the Groundframe Ward, Wing figured the subject of the tirade was Ratchet.

“What do you want me to do?” He asked, using rotary dialect subharmonics in an attempt to calm the irate mech.

“Get him _out_ of the slagging Medbay. Make sure he fuels, make him sleep.” Lancet growled, rotor blades flaring low and wide in an angry display. “ _I don’t care how_. The _last_ thing the Autobots need right now is their CMO becoming a casualty through obstinate, idiotic self-neglect.”

With that, Lancet shoved Wing through the door of an operating room and slammed it shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Lancet's rotors acting as a cross between feathers and a cat's tail as a mood-signaller. Just picture him like a pokemon trainer here, tossing his high-level Legendary into a bossfight: Wing, I choose you!


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancet's secret weapon is extremely effective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood, fluff, hurt/comfort, EMOTIONS.
> 
> SO. MANY. EMOTIONS.

Thankfully nobody seemed to notice Wing’s abrupt entrance.

Silently, he watched as the last patient was wheeled out of the room. He couldn’t suppress his shudder when he saw a horrifyingly familiar purple sigil blazoned on both of the blue Seeker’s wings, suddenly glad that the unconscious mech was strapped securely to his gurney.

The sound of his rattling armour attracted the attention of both Ratchet and the tired-looking minibot taking charge of the unconscious Seeker. The minibot murmured something, pushing the Seeker from the room while Ratchet started wiping his forearms down with a damp cloth. Wing’s optics flicked over Ratchet’s frame once, then again as something churned in his spark.

The medic looked like he’d just returned from the front lines. While Ratchet’s upper body was mostly free of gore he was liberally splattered from the waist down; drying energon and other bodily fluids encrusted his plating and gathered in his seams. Visible scrapes and burns hinted at more damage that Wing couldn’t see.

Ratchet finished wiping himself down, ragged Field extending in greeting and apology. The sheer exhaustion in the grounder’s EMF was staggering. His biolights were dim, flickering as he shoved the used cloth into a reclamation hatch.

_He looks like he’s about to fall over._

Lancet’s rage suddenly made perfect sense.

_Why didn’t he come get me sooner?!_

Wing braced himself for an argument, but convincing Ratchet to leave the operating theatre was surprisingly easy.

All it took was a suggestion that he could help Ratchet clean up, and enough time for the weary mech to glance down at himself and realise what he was seeing.

Wing guiding the exhausted mech to the nearest medic’s wash station with minimum fuss and many grateful EMF brushes from the mechs they passed. Ratchet seemed oblivious to the byplay, Field withdrawing from contact as they turned into the washrack and closed the door behind them.

It took a long, long time to get him clean.

By the time Ratchet was finally safe to be seen in public he was quite amenable to the suggestion of a cube of real, proper energon instead of what Lancet implied he’d been living on since the attack. Wing watched as Ratchet closed his optics and knocked the entire cube back in one long swallow, saying nothing.

Predictably, Ratchet refused to go back to his own quarters. Even for a ‘quick’ break.

The stubbornness that had that had caused Wing so many problems in his life finally turned into an asset. He ruthlessly shot down every single argument Ratchet came up with, subtly herding him in the right direction so that instead of his office chair, Ratchet ended up on the obscenely comfortable couch in his quarters, grumbling and rubbing at his chevron mount.

“Helmache?” Wing asked softly.

The answer was a nod and a wince. Wing perched on the arm of the couch, unwilling to encroach too much on Ratchet’s personal space right now. No matter how badly he wanted to hold the groundframe in his arms and watch over him as he recharged.

“Yeah.” Ratchet sighed, Field filled with resignation.

“Where are the pain patches?” Wing asked, popping back up and looking to Ratchet for directions. “I can get you one.”

“Can’t have any right now.” Grimacing, Ratchet rubbed his chevron mount again.

“Why not?” Wing tilted his helm, confused.

“Even mild ones would dull feedback from my diagnostic suite, and I can’t afford that at this point.” With another heavy sigh Ratchet sat back, leaning his helm against the back of the couch, looking over at Wing with dim optics. “Everyone’s on-call at times like this, that’s just how it is.”

Nodding in understanding, Wing tried to soothe Ratchet’s tattered Field with his own as he slowly sat back down. Something about the tension threading the grounder’s EMF made his flightpanels flick and twitch as an old, old memory file unpacked.

_It might work for him too…_

“May I try something?” The words were out of Wing;s vocaliser before he could stop them.

Ratchet looked up at him, a frown adding extra creases to his already fatigue-lined features. There were more lines now than when they’d first met and Wing lost himself in studying the medic, trying to catalogue the subtle changes the last year had wrought on soft dermal metal.

_Exhaused but still so handsome. It’s barely been two years…_

It felt like he’d known the mech forever, like Ratchet had always been an important part of his life even though it really hadn’t been all that long since they’d first met.

_Next to no time at all in our lifespans…_

“Like _what?_ ” Ratchet said sharply. He sounded like he was repeating himself, bringing Wing back to the present with a little jolt.

The ambulance’s Field immediately pulsed an apology that Wing responded to with a silent wave of _forgive/understand_ as he stood and moved around the couch, standing behind the medic. Ratchet tilted his helm back as far as he could, watching him with tired optics, curiosity and something else warming his expression.

“It’s a form of massage.” Wing tried to explain, fumbling for words as Ratchet’s Field buzzed warmly against his. “At least, I think that’s what it is.” He paused, trying to find words as Ratchet’s upside-down optics seemed to pull him in.

“Well _that’s_ a helpful description.” Ratchet sounded tired and amused. “Very informative.”

“Oh, be quiet.” Wing snapped, aware he was being teased and feeling oddly flustered. “I’m just… I was…”

“I was teasing you, Wing.” Ratchet soothed with voice and Field, projecting a strong sense of apology. “It wasn’t the time for it. I’m sorry.”

Wing sighed, flightpanels hanging low against his back as the nervous tension that had been bubbling inside him suddenly vanished. He felt foolish, regretting his words. Ratchet didn’t often have the time or energy for playful teasing these days, and here he was ruining it.

“No; _I’m_ sorry.” Wing said firmly, taking Ratchet’s helm carefully in his hands and bending down to brush their forehelms together. “I’m not used to having to stand aside and let others do the fighting. Defending others is supposed to be my function, my _purpose_ , part of my duties as a Knight. Not being able to do that… leaves me out-of-sorts.”

This close, Wing could watch the mechanisms of Ratchet’s optics shift as he changed focus several times. The rich teal blue colour was soothing, like the skies he used to fly in. It reminded him of Theophany’s upper atmosphere when he pushed the limits of his altitude ceiling.

For several long seconds Wing just stared, completely entranced.

“I had a feeling it might be like that, which is why I shouldn’t have teased you in the first place.” Ratchet’s words, combined with the emotions thick in his Field warmed Wing clear through to his spark. “So; would you like to explain or demonstrate this sort-of-massage thing of yours?”

Projecting _thanks/gratitude_ Wing leg to of Ratchet’s helm and straightened up, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. As he did so Ratchet wrapped his Field around his in a very distracting way. Forcing himself himself to stay on-task he found Ratchet still looking up at him, watching with a little half-smile softening his faceplates.

“It’s something flightframes resorted to while we were excavating the city cavern.” Wing said as he willed his hands to move, suddenly nervous of touching Ratchet. As if the mech would somehow be able to read his thoughts if he did.

“We built underground.” He continued, hands still hovering in midair. “Being stuck in a confined space like that with excavators and equipment vibrations mucking with the air currents gave anyone with wings or sensory panels overuse migraines within a day.”

Slowly he managed to convince himself that it was ok to touch, safe to do so without giving himself away. Gently he skimmed the lines of Ratchet’s helm crest, tracing transformation seams and finding the lines beneath his armour by feel.

There was something about Ratchet’s Field that was bringing some very inappropriate thoughts to Wing’s mind as he contemplated the clean, strong lines of the medic’s frame. Even exhausted as he was from working nonstop for several days he was still incredibly attractive, and his graceless sprawl on the couch didn’t diminish the allure of his frame one bit.

_If you like strong, sensibly-built mecha._

Realising the direction his thoughts were taking, Wing managed to get control over himself before his cooling fans came on. Even if he thought Ratchet might be interested, now was _not_ the time to see if he’d be interested in a roll in the berth. The middle of a war wasn’t the best time to pursue any relationship more involved than an occasional frag.

_I’d like him for something more than a frag-buddy, if he’s interested …_

“You’ve been scanning almost nonstop since the first casualties came in, correct?” Wing asked in an attempt to distract himself from the direction his thoughts were taking.

“Yes.” Low and husky, that one word was enough to fuel _weeks_ of solitary fantasies despite the words that followed. “My entire diagnostic suite feels like it’s been flattened and charbroiled.”

Humming low in his vocaliser, Wing pulled his Field in and did his best to centre himself. When thought he was ready he extended his Field carefully, focusing it around his hands as he continued his gentle stroking of Ratchet’s helm.

When he felt a distinctive _prickle-sting_ Wing activated low-output electromagnets in his fingers, countering the frequency and smoothing it away. If his guess was right, then this brief, light EM interference would work on strained neural circuitry and Ratchet’s overused diagnostic sensors the same way it did with overloaded and confused flight surfaces.

Continuing the gentle petting, Wing forcibly reminded himself to cycle his vents as he waited for a reaction.

After a minute or so Ratchet relaxed slightly. Relief flickered through his Field as a sigh ghosted from his vents.

With this encouragement Wing moved more confidently, chasing down the prickly feeling that was charge pooling where it wasn’t needed and easing it away. A stronger ripple of relief flowed through Ratchet’s Field and Wing was suddenly acutely aware that this kind of EMF manipulation could be used to overload a willing partner. His thoughts threatened to stray into inappropriate territory as another prickly patch vanished beneath his fingers and Ratchet shivered blissfully, his armour rustling against the couch.

Desperate to distract himself, Wing tried to restart their lapsed conversation.

“The rest of the medics would have been pinging scans off everyone too, I bet.” pitched his voice low, trying not to startle the gradually melting medic. “You would have been catching echoes from all the handhelds for non-medical types as well..”

“We’re able to filter all that background noise out.” Ratchet mumbled, optics sliding halfway closed as he relaxed completely under Wing’s hands. “But the more interference there is the harder it gets.”

“The harder everyone worked the harder it got for everyone to do their job.” Wing murmured, finally making his way up to Ratchet’s chevron. “It happens too often.”

Ratchet managed an affirmative sound and then seemed to lose all control over his vocaliser. The purr that emerged from him startled Wing almost as much as the way his strong grounder engine rumbled in a contented and harmonious accompaniment. His fingers stilled briefly, twitching against worn red enamel for a moment before he continued the massage, hunting down the prickling of overused, charge-holding circuitry and soothing it away.

Eventually Wing declared himself done; he couldn’t find any more signs of stressed sensors in Ratchet’s helm suite and his hands ached like he’d been training bare-handed with Dai Atlas. Finally relaxing the careful control over his Field he reached out to Ratchet, encountering a sea of contentment that pulled a happy chirr from his vocaliser.

When he looked down he couldn’t resist taking a couple of image captures. What had once been the Tyrant of Medbay was now a sleepy, purring pile of scratched red-and-white armour that looked to be seconds away from recharging right where he was.

“Think you can make it to your berth?” Wing asked quietly as Ratchet blinked and gave himself a little shake, trying to sit up. “You should recharge. This should last long enough for you to cycle down and self-repair to handle enough of the strain damage so the pain doesn’t wake you up.”

Moving back around the couch he held out a hand, silently offering to help Ratchet to his pedes. Teal optics cycled slowly, Ratchet focusing on the outstretched hand then glaring half-heartedly up at Wing.

“Don’t wanna move.” He grumbled, irritation spiking through his Field as he settled himself more comfortably on the couch. “Can’t make me, either. You’re strong but not _that_ strong.”

_Time to play dirty._

“If you’re not going to be using your berth then may I borrow it?” Wing asked, turning to look hopefully at the medic’s berthroom door. “It’s not a long walk back to my quarters, but the entire base is understandably nervous about non-Autobots wandering around right now.”

Ratchet twitched but didn’t rise to the bait, waving Wing onwards.

“Go for it.” He cycled his vents in a deep yawn, already powering down. “Just don’t drool on my pillow.”

Fighting an obscure disappointment Wing wasn’t above stretching his arms and flightpanels out in a deliberate display, trying to tempt Ratchet from the couch. If nothing else, he’d hoped that at least he’d get to recharge next to that warm frame again, wrapped in those strong arms with Ratchet’s Field surrounding him.

The way the entire berthroom smelled like Ratchet was small comfort to Wing as he settled himself face-down on the empty berth, buried his faceplates in a thick foam pillow and let his own exhaustion claim him.

Several hours later he awoke to the sound of slow, heavy pedesteps approaching the berthroom.

The pedesteps paused and Wing pushed himself up, bringing his optics online to see Ratchet standing in the doorway. He looking surprised; as if he hadn’t expected to see anyone there, hadn’t expected Wing.

Reaching out with his Field, Wing encountered the distinctive fear-echoes of a nightmare. Before Ratchet could say anything he was up on his knees, opening his arms in a silent offer of support.

With a long, a shuddering sigh Ratchet slid onto the berth and into Wing’s arms, pressing his forehelm against Wing’s chestplates. Weariness born of too much death and horror filled the groundframe’s Field as he started to shake, armour rattling softly.

Sliding an arm behind Ratchet to support his back, Wing brought the other up to rub at the back of a shoulder assembly in an attempt to offer physical comfort. Ratchet clung tighter in response, shame flickering to life in his Field. With a disapproving sound Wing rejected that shame, surrounded the mech with as much _understanding/comfort/safety_ as he could project.

Determined, Wing leaned back and pulled Ratchet down to the berth, tugging at the heavier mech and adjusting their positions so that Ratchet would be comfortable when fatigue caught up him again.

This was the first time Wing had seen Ratchet break down like this and his spark ached as he realised that as CMO it was very likely he had very few he could turn to for emotional support. Right now those few would be either as worn down as he was, or medics who would be disturbed by seeing their commanding officer go to pieces like this.

_He needs a shoulder sometimes, too._

Tightening his hold, Wing vowed that so long as he was in Iacon, Ratchet would never be without someone to lean on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a Decepticon to be mean to, and TC took the fall.  
> Wing was willing to do anything in his power to make sure Ratchet slept in a bed, including tempting him with snuggles. Unfortunately he can't actually pick him up and haul him if he's not cooperating XD  
> Ratchet was more than half-asleep still and completely forgot that Wing had stayed TuT
> 
> :Pokemon Blue Battle Music:  
> Enemy Ratchet appears!  
> Lancet is going to use Wing! "SORT THE IDIOT OUT!"  
> Wing uses Charm.  
> It's super effective! Enemy Ratchet fell asleep!  
> [Entire Medical division: Thank you Primus TTuTT]


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected developments force Wing to make a move.  
> A move Ratchet did NOT see coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRACE YOURSELF FOR THAT SAPPY GOOD SHIT  
> Also jumpscare by falling writing utensil

Several weeks later Wing went looking for Ratchet, only to find his office empty.

The rest of the medic’s usual haunts were unexpectedly Ratchet-free as well, so Wing headed for the main medical common room to wait for shift change.

To pass the time while he waited, Wing puttered around tidying up; chasing down stray styluses and double-checking the supply of clean cubes for the energon dispenser. If he was being useful nobody would question his presence here, and even the most guarded mech would unbend just enough to tell him what he wanted to know.

“You looking for Ratchet?” Lancet was the first to appear, rotor blades shifting and clicking as he wandered in, stretching his arms. “He had a disiciplinary hearing this morning. Prowl’s probably gonna drag it out as long as he can.”

“A what?” Wing was sure he’d heard wrong. “ _Why?_ ”

“Disobeying orders.” Accepting a cube of standard flyer-grade, Lancet shrugged and flopped onto a couch. “Applying triage and operating regardless of faction allegiance instead of focusing on Autobots during that last attack.”

This was what Wing had _expected_ the medical team to do, but apparently _not_ what they had been ordered to do. Lancet took advantage of his captive audience to embark on a lengthy rant. As he went on Wing’s tank churned, his spark shrinking at the greater implications of Lancet’s words.

Ratchet’s actions had been scrupulously fair; holding true to the letter _and_ spirit of his oaths as a medic –not to mention obeying his coding and spark. But the had gotten him serious backlash from nearly all of Autobot Command, with the only exception being the Prime.

It was the innate drive to help others and strong ethical code that Wing admired in Ratchet that caused the problem. Even Wing could see that if the war escalated or even just continued at the current level of intensity then Ratchet would have to learn how to bend and compromise himself in order to keep his position, or risk losing his place in the Autobots entirely.

_But he’s a lot like me in some ways…_

Stubborn, set in his principles, committed to doing what was _right_.

As Lancet monologued Wing tried to imaging Ratchet bending. Trying to picture the damage it would do to the grounder’s spirit if he continually compromised his principles made Wing queasy.

Later, while attempting to meditate, he forced himself to confront the possibility.

One battle at a time, a skirmish here and a soldier there. It would add up quickly as Ratchet tried to justify and rationalise everything to himself. Corpses piling on corpses as he was forced to make the decisions that went against the very essence of _who he was._

_It would smother his spark._

Wing had a sneaking suspicion that Ratchet would be too stubborn to give up. The medic would continue fight on, snatching sparks back from Mortilus even as his own dimmed under the strain of compromising his integrity as a healer.

It was horrible to contemplate; that caring, compassionate mech being burned out, growing jaded by the war.

_And it’s happening already._

There were hints of it, if you watched Ratchet the way Wing did.

Ratchet was pushing himself harder, formless guilt tarnishing his Field when they were alone. During those late nights Wing spent covertly admired the strength and understated elegance of Ratchet’s frame he was either trying to figure out how to approach the medic or doing his best to alleviate that guilt.

It was a guilt Wing understood all too well. To feel it in Ratchet’s Field worried him more than he could express.

_He might break before he bends, and that’s what I’m afraid of._

A broken Ratchet was too horrible to contemplate, something Wing suddenly realised he’d give his spark to prevent.

The idea stuck in his mind, gathering an aura of significance. Once the initial shock wore off it felt strangely _right_. The only sadness associated with it was knowing that if he did so then he’d be leaving Ratchet alone.

Right now it was unlikely he’d have to do so.

Wing was well aware that he didn’t really have the ability to protect Ratchet from _anything_. Except maybe himself when he worked too hard, and Ratchet working too hard had become a distressingly common event.

Deadlock’s victory on Theophany had galvanised the Decepticons. With his dedication to the cause redoubled he was fighting with a brutality he’d never shown before. All by himself, Deadlock was giving the Decepticons the drive to continue pushing the Autobots and keep them on the defensive.

Prime’s forces had been losing territory and mechs steadily for months. Everyone knew it but didn’t want to talk about it for fear of attracting bad luck. It would only be a matter of time before evacuation procedures were drafted and issued to the Autobots currently in Iacon.

A sense of imbalance nagged at Wing, a feeling that he was missing something. It would require deeper meditation, something he wasn’t likely to achieve at that point in time. Thinking about evacuation procedures had him wondering about Ratchet’s place in the exodus, and thoughts of Ratchet had his frame heating in an decidedly un-meditative way.

The warmth of the grounder’s strong frame, the frequency of his engine idling in recharge, his scent, his dry sense of humour and the way his teal optics sometimes seemed to look right into Wing’s spark. A long time ago Wing had been forced to admit that Ratchet pushed so many of his buttons that the only possible way to make him any more attractive would be a flight-capable alt.

_One of those long-distance cruisers. No frills, just staying power._

It was a mental image that had Wing’s flightpanels twitch, his array heating beneath pelvic armour that was _almost_ uncomfortable enough for the locks to auto-release.

_Oh, for Primus’ sake!_

Wing was extremely glad that he had reclaimed his frame and pleasure held no fear for him anymore, but his naturally high energy levels only had one real outlet at the moment. As good as overloading felt, it was starting to feel like a chore.

 _If only they’d let me fly… but Lancet has only_ just _cleared me to transform. And it hurt like the Pit_

He knew all too well that flight simulators and wind tunnels just _weren’t the same_ as actual flight. They appeased the sky-hunger for a while, but they provided very little in the way of actual physical exercise.

Exercise he _needed_ if he was to achieve some semblance of calm.

 _This is_ ridiculous _. Come on, focus!_

After another half an hour of fruitless attempts to meditate Wing finally gave up.

With a sigh, he stood and slid Aequitas into place at his back. Growling at the amusement and sly encouragement he could feel pulsing from the Greatsword, Wing went in search of Ratchet.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Ratchet was sitting in one of the medic common rooms –datapad of administrative work in one hand and his afternoon fuel in the other- when Wing entered. He was forced to to hide a smile behind his cube as Wing threw himself dramatically onto one of the long couches, broadcasting agitation with every twitch of his flightpanels.

With the ease borne of their close friendship Ratchet could see that Wing had sought him out for one of their mutual venting sessions. Even if there wasn’t anything either one of them could actually _do_ to help the other, it was still good to have that friendly, non-judgemental audial.

 _I promised him one, but I_ never _thought he’d want to do the same for me…_

“What’s the matter with you?” Ratchet asked, watching Wing shift and twitch.

“I feel like I’m about to _explode_.” The jet growled, unusual agitation making his glyphs sharper than normal. “I’m not allowed to fly and Lancet hasn’t cleared me for sparring yet, either. Not even quarter-strength! And if I try to do solo patterns _officially_ for longer than an hour at a time he sets a watcher on me.” Twisting around to lie on his front, the Knight thumped his forehelm against the couch cushions a few times before lifting it and declaring. “If I don’t get some real exercise _soon_ I think I’m going to go mad.”

An old adage from medical training popped helpfully into Ratchet’s processor.

_Three ‘F’s for flightframes; Flying, fighting and fragging._

“What about overloading?” He suggested, keeping his voice as neutral and non-committal as he could. “By yourself or with a frag buddy who won’t piss off Lancet by getting too lively?”

Wing made a rude noise. Given how on-edge he was, Ratchet was willing to forgive him.

“To be blunt, Ratchet; I’m thoroughly tired of my hands _and_ the spray nozzle in the washracks. They’re not exactly _satisfying_ anymore. As for the other…” Wing’s jaw snapped shut with a click of denta and a sudden flush of heat brought an infrared glow to his faceplates and cheekpieces. “I, um, I don’t know.”

Ratchet wanted to slap himself.

“I’m Sorry Wing, I didn’t think before I spoke.” He extended his Field to silently reinforce the apology.

“No, no it’s ok.” Wing shot him a tight smile from his place on the couch as his cheekpieces started glowing unaccountably brighter. “It’s not that; well not _entirely_. It’s just…”

Ratchet knew that look; the flushed glance away with a lipplate bitten in a failed attempt to hide a softened expression.

Wing had a crush.

Fighting down sudden jealousy and bitter resentment of the unknown mech Ratchet reminded himself that this means he got to play matchmaker. Something he usually enjoyed. Hopefully get to see mechs –Wing in particular- being _happy_ instead of hurting or grieving. Genuinely happy mechs were a rare sight in Iacon these days.

 _And normally I_ love _playing matchmaker, but this time…_

Suddenly aware that he’d been silent for a moment too long, Ratchet scrambled to recover.

“You _like_ someone!” He accused with expertly feigned glee, forcing both envy and paperwork from his mind as he put the datapad aside and leaned forward in his chair. “Don’t you?”

Wing’s blush strengthened and he buried his faceplates in the couch in a futile attempt to hide it. Determinedly, Ratchet pushed down the tight knot of longing that formed around his spark and focused on Wing and Wing’s happiness.

 _It_ doesn’t matter _who he berths; you’ll still be his friend._

“ _Yes_.” Wing mumbled into the couch cushions.

“Is that why you haven’t found a frag buddy or two?” Until now, Ratchet hadn’t understood why Wing brushed off advances once the Autobots had become comfortable around him.

It was common knowledge that a good portion of Iacon base thought Wing was extremely attractive, even with his Neutral status. Additionally, the entire army was now intimately familiar with the kinds of suffering the Knight had endured and knew how to deal with the aftermath of such trauma.

_War is brutal. And for a bunch of stroppy, belligerent crankshafts they can be remarkably understanding…_

Armour flexed and rustled as Wing nodded into the couch cushions.

“Yeah.” He sighed, rolling onto his side and clutching the cushion to his chestplates as his yellow gaze wandered around the room, looking at everything but Ratchet. “I… I didn’t want to mess things up.”

“Sounds like you have it _bad_ , flyboy.” Ratchet tried to sound sympathetic and not at all like he was extremely jealous of whoever had caught the jet’s optic. “So? Are you gonna tell me about this mech and why you haven’t approached them yet? Or am I going to have to _beat_ the information out of you?”

Now Wing’s optics focused on him, strange and unreadable in the exotic cast of his faceplates.

“Like I said; I don’t want to mess things up.” Wing’s glyphs were low and sincere, spoken so softly Ratchet had to boost his audial gain to make sure he was picking them up properly. “The mech I like, he’s brilliant and funny and has one of the most generous and caring sparks of anyone I’ve ever met.”

Then Wing frowned, the guidance flaps on his nacelles flaring out as a hint of anger crept into his Field.

“But he’s such a stubborn _aft_ about some things and I did _not_ want him to think I was some good-time mech propositioning him out of pity or that I was making a joke at his expense.” Golden optics bored into Ratchet, holding him in place as Wing almost growled the last words.

_That… makes a lot of sense, actually._

Wing didn’t give him a chance to interrupt, heated words pouring from him as his voice got slowly louder.

“He doesn’t seem to think too highly of his appearance, either. Although I know for a _fact_ he could have most of the Autobots with his looks alone if he just crooked a finger at them.” A short bark of laughter crackled from Wing’s vocaliser as he rolled his optics. “Primus, half of them would hop into his berth just because they just want to make him feel good in thanks for everything he does for them.”

Wing clutched the pillow possessively to his chestplates, fingertips pressing deep furrows into the sturdy material.

Ratchet was forced to admit to himself that he envied a cushion.

“I don’t just want a frag buddy; I want _more_ than that.” The sense of vulnerability in Wing’s Field made Ratchet want to take the jet in his arms and protect him from the world as he finished speaking “But he’s _incredible_ and so good at what he does, I don’t know if I have anything worthwhile to offer someone as wonderful as him.”

The little flicker of hope that Ratchet had been steadfastly ignoring flickered out, raw envy filling him as Wing finished describing the object of his affections.

 _It would have been nice. It would have been_ more _than nice. You can’t have everything in this life; it should be enough to be his friend._

“ _Don’t talk about yourself like that_.” Ratchet growled, his own armour flaring slowly. “You have _plenty_ to offer any mech lucky enough to catch your optic. It shouldn’t matter to them if you’ve had other partners before you asked them.”

Huffing through his vents, Ratchet leaned back in his chair and shifted his gaze to a random point on the wall behind the couch Wing occupied. He couldn’t look at the Knight, not right now.

“Besides, you’ll never know if you don’t ask.” He said softly, feeling unwanted pain lance through his spark. “So fragging well _do_ it or I’ll find out who it is and weld you to the wall of their quarters so you HAVE to speak to them.”

Suddenly Wing was right in front of him, warm yellow optics blazing like the heart of a star as he took Ratchet’s face in his hands. Ratchet gaped openly; he hadn’t even heard the mech move. Wing’s Field was full of fondness and exasperation as he shook his helm, lipplates quirking up in a half-smile.

“ _Ratchet_. You may be a genius surgeon who’s saved half this army with your own two hands, but you’re also one of the most _oblivious_ mechs in existence.” Wing’s low voice slid into Ratchet’s audials and wrapped around his spark, freezing him in place. “It’s absolutely _infuriating_.”

And then Wing was kissing him, with soft lipplates and yearning Field and incredible tenderness as if Ratchet was made of crystal and would shatter under too much pressure.

Ratchet’s vents stalled, his entire frame locked up in a single brilliant moment of disbelief melting into comprehension and then he returned the kiss. Just as softly, just as carefully, longing he finally acknowledged answered by the fuzzy-warm Field caressing his.

Someone whimpered, someone else made a breathless sound of wonder and then Wing was straddling his lap, still kissing him with Ratchet’s hands resting on the jet’s narrow, flexible waist, both anchor and support as Wing shivered and kissed him until the air pouring from their vents sent Ratchet’s stylus to the floor with a loud clatter that startled them both.

They both jumped, pulling apart to stare into each other’s optics at close range while their vents dumped air and cooling fans sucked in extra to cool their overheating frames.

In that instant, Ratchet knew he was lost.

As he gazed into the golden optics that blazed like twin stars he felt Wing’s Field move into his in a wave of warm affection and couldn’t find it in himself to care, returning the emotion with every atom of his being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABOUT FUCKIN' TIME OMG  
> RATCHET IS THE FUCKIN EMPEROR OF OBLIVIOUSNESS HOLY HELL YOU IDIOT DOCTOR  
> Poor frustrated jetboi XD  
> Also this is the last vaguely NSFW piece of the fic.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aequitas finally gets Wing to listen.  
> A decision needs to be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Wing chucks up again
> 
> Song for this chapter: [[Arrival to Earth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4H0JDomv8acArrival)] -Steve Jablonksy

 

Wing practically bounced around Iacon base for _weeks_ after that first kiss, grinning fit to split his face in half.

Surprisingly, he annoyed he slag out of fewer people than he’d thought he might.

Apparently the ones who _were_ annoyed about the situation had either lost money in some mysterious betting pool or were simply the type to hate and envy the happiness of others.

None of that mattered to him. Ratchet had not only accepted his –rather haphazard, he had to admit- proposition, but the groundframe _returned his feelings_.

That was what stunned him the most, that Ratchet was not only _attracted_ but his Field carried an emotion that was unmistakable, the same one that suffused his faceplates during unguarded moments late at night when he thought Wing had fallen asleep on his couch or was too deep in conversation with someone to notice.

_Usually Lancet or Jazz, I think. Fixit too, for that matter…_

By mutual agreement they were taking things slowly.

Most of the time Ratchet was simply too busy or too tired to do more than curl up together on his couch whenever he had a precious few hours free. Wing didn’t want to say anything, but he found he recharged more easily in the medic’s company than alone in his assigned room. He was grateful for the opportunities to nap together and took advantage of them whenever they occurred.

Although as time wore on he found himself resenting the war all the more for what it was doing to the medic.

Ratchet was slowly being worn down, the rest of the medical team along with him. Because he was CMO he kept a strong front up around the rest of the Autobots, but Wing saw him when he was exhausted, all his medical mods aching from overuse while his neural net created a feedback migraine that only hours of unconsciousness and self-repair could cure.

With the Deceptions continuing to push at Iacon the Autobots simply _couldn't_ afford to have the CMO out of commission for more than a single shift at a time. Wing did what he could, trying to make Ratchet’s life easier and easing what migraines he could with more EM-massage. It didn’t help much. Constant low-level pain made Ratchet snappish and grumpy and thoroughly unwilling to put up with stupidity of any kind.

One night Wing was meditating as the earlier sense of something being unbalanced returned. Along with this feeling came a realisation that Aequitas was trying to tell him something, a message that was too complex for the simple impressions of light meditation.

Wing checked his internal chronometer to see if there was enough time left in the night cycle ne night as he meditated the earlier sense of somethicenallyilling to -repair could cure. He sd, all his medical modnight when for him to commune properly with Aequitas without arousing suspicions. From experience he knew that if it was a particularly difficult or complex message then the meditation could take several days. Without the support of the Citadel this could be a problem. None of the Autobots seemed to really grasp what a Greatsword actually _was_. This was something Wing was grateful for, while at the same time he was mildly annoyed by the situation.

 _It’s still early. I_ should _have enough time to get a feel for the scope of it, at least._

Shifting from the floor to the berth, Wing arranged himself in a meditative posture that looked a lot like recharge –if one didn’t know Knights. With that done, he cycled his vents deeply and began to calm his mind, letting surface thoughts flit past without grasping at them.

Eventually all thought slowed to a quiet stop; processors that were once a busy hive becoming an expectant stillness waiting to be filled. Instead of his favourite sky imagery, for some reason Wing decided on that of an empty garden waiting for the first small spires of crystal.

 _I need to_ fly _, slag it all._

Nothing happened for a long time. Aequitas was still unhappy with him over being neglected for so long. Lately the Greatsword seemed to be making _absolutely sure_ Wing was paying attention to it before beginning to speak.

Tonight was no exception.

It felt like it took hours for the first shapes to form. First, Aequitas lead Wing through some of the things he had been trying to suppress, thoughts he had been deliberately ignoring and trying to put out of his mind while he was awake.

Things that had haunted his dreams.

Images of New Crystal City and how it might look after weathering the Decepticon attack and being rebuilt; damaged but still beautiful, strong despite the scars one the once-pristine cityscape. In his minds’ eye flightframes zipped freely across an achingly familiar cityscape, binary stars blazing down upon streets that had never before seen the sunlight.

It was so beautiful he wanted to cry.

 _Would Dai Atlas_ really _take the City to the surface? The Metrotitan…_

The Greatsword’s question was clear: If New Crystal City still stood, would Wing go back? Would he return to Theophany even if it didn’t, just to be certain?

It was a difficult decision. One Wing _knew_ he had to make and one he had been actively avoiding.

Choosing to leave Iacon would mean choosing to leave Ratchet, abandoning what had grown between them and potentially destroying whatever their fledgling relationship could become.

It also would mean being labelled a potential spy by the Autobots; something Wing did _not_ want to happen.

_They’d never believe me if I said I wasn’t…_

If the war ended tomorrow or in the next week Wing _knew_ he’d sneak away somehow. He’d beg, buy or steal a ship with deep-space capabilities, point the bow towards Theophany and travel as fast as he could to find what was left of his home.

_If it still stands…_

Until Aequitas rejected him he would still –technically- be a Knight and would bear the the responsibilities of one.

 _I_ have _to know…_

If the City was still intact, if _anyone_ remained then Wing knew he faced the most gruelling penance of his entire functioning. One that could possibly cost him his spark.

Facing death for himself held no fear, only a dread-filled kind of acceptance. He knew there was an imbalance; he had caused harm, turned harmony into discord and therefore he _owed_ and needed to set things right.

But now that there was another spark to consider.

_I would tell Ratchet what I was doing, that I was going home to see if…_

And if he didn’t return, Ratchet would assume that he was dead -or worse. And Wing didn’t want to be the cause of that kind of suffering.

Slowly the shape of the imaginary crystal garden was forming in his mind. Love and duty, guilt, remorse and responsibility coloured the soft spires of new growth emerging from the shimmering sand. Wing struggled to make sense of it, recognising basic elements of the pattern but unable to parse the overall message.

It was too complex, the form too vast for him to understand while his spark was still enframed.

 _~What can I **do?** ~_ He pleaded helplessly.

Finally Aequitas relented. The Sword lifted Wing _up_ and to the _side_ slightly so some of the parts seemed to come together, pieces he understood as relating to his actions growing clearer.

_Voluntary exile, because of what I have done. Until…_

Tanks lurching and rolling, Wing rose up out of mediation with a gasp. Rolling quickly to his side just in time to empty his tanks across the floor.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had a Greatsword-imposed penance, but it this one was by far the harshest.

**_~It is fair.~_ **

Aequitas spoke for the first time in the long centuries of their bonding, shocking Wing as much as the fact that he’d already accepted the actions it demanded for his atonement.

_~Yes; it is.~_

The Decepticons had regained a mighty warrior by Wing’s actions.

Therefore, by his own actions he must do his best to counteract or neutralise this warrior entirely.

Steeling himself, Wing stood on shaky pedes and fetched cleaning supplies. As soon as he cleaned up the mess, he would find Ratchet and tell him what he’d decided.

_All I can do is hope he understands..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit Wing there are REASONS a deep meditation is always overseen by a medic and another Knight! Bloody idiot -.-
> 
> All we have left is the epilogue. It's been a ride, ay?


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The adventure begins and ends with hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :Starts singing the Time Warp: TIME SKIP WHEE

 

**[Several years later]**

 

To say that Ratchet had been unhappy to hear of Wing’s decision to join the Autobots was an understatement. He respected the Knight’s decision, understood his reasoning (what Wing would tell him of it). But it still didn’t change the fact that another friend was was willingly throwing himself into battle, courting death every time he did so.

Wing being both lover and beloved made it infinitely worse.

But Wing… Wing was _careful_.

Ratchet saw it the first time Prowl allowed the newly-Autobranded Knight into battle.

Wing fought with cunning and skill, held his position, kept formation and he always returned. Not always in one piece, granted. Never undamaged. But Wing _always came back to him_.

To Ratchet.

The instant everyone was stabilised, Ratchet would turn to find a battered Knight standing there with concentrated rations for him, smiling with those warm golden optics and pulling Ratchet away for a quick shower and as long a rest as he could be convinced to take.

And it kept happening.

Rumours began to spread that the Knight was touched by Primus, blessed by the Guiding Hand. That he was a revenant sent to them specifically to counter the spawn of Unicron known as Deadlock.

When Wing heard the rumours he laughed and pointed out his many non-angelic qualities. When Ratchet heard the rumours he raised an optical ridge at Jazz, getting nothing but a grin in response.

The first time Wing danced for Ratchet in the sky, spiralling and soaring against flares and artillery fire, Ratchet knew that as soon as the war was over he’d offer Wing his spark.

_There’s nobody else I’d rather bond with…_

Before it could happen, both sides were forced to abandon Cybertron.

Having turned their planet into a wasteland unfit even for war, they took their conflict to the stars.

Wing was being sent ahead, part of a scouting detail tasked with locating and securing a suitable place for a medical outpost. Ratchet would follow later, travelling with the first wave of medics and those patients who needed to be away from the front lines in order to heal.

Knight and Medic shared a bittersweet farewell in the hangar, a long-range scouting ship warming its engines behind them.

They weren’t the only couple doing so; only the most notorious.

Ratchet couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever see Wing again, if this was the last time the beautiful white jet would smile up at him with that particular knowing look in his optics. Whole and healed and confident, he was a million miles from the broken wreck of a mech that First Aid had sent to them.

_What if…_

As if he’d read Ratchet’s thoughts, Wing rose on the toepieces of his pedes to brush a light kiss over the center of Ratchet’s chevron.

“See you soon, my love.” The jet murmured, as if in blessing.

Ratchet’s startled response was hoarse and rough with emotion, an answering prayer

“You too, love. I look forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! It's been one hell of a ride but we got there, and it's a good hopeful ending too.
> 
> Once again I'd like to thank the wonderful Anon who commissioned this work and allowed me to post it so more rarepair content could to be added to the fandom pool. This fic was challenging in many ways and I had so much fun building Ratchet and Wing's relationship, even when Captain Oblivious was driving me up the wall XD
> 
> So yeah we're all done now, you can run right through the horrible bits and straight on into the fluff in one sitting :D
> 
> Also, if you didn't read 'Several Years Later' in the voice of the narrator from Spongebob (or at least picture that eyeburning flashscreen) I AM ASHAMED OF YOU (and envious, lol)


End file.
